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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23351395">Corrupted Bone and Wanton Flesh</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/RissaWolf/pseuds/RissaWolf'>RissaWolf</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Dishonored (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Abduction, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood Kink, Canon-Typical Violence, Character Development, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Female Protagonist, Gender-Neutral Pronouns, High Chaos Corvo Attano, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Kidnapping, Low Chaos Daud (Dishonored), Medium Chaos (Dishonored), Multi, Muteness, Non-Consensual Bondage, Nonbinary Character, Original Character(s), Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Predicament Bondage, Psychological Torture, Reader-Insert, Resolved Sexual Tension, Roleplay, Selectively Mute Corvo Attano, Sexual Abuse, Sexual Fantasy, Sexual Tension, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Threesome - F/M/M, Torture</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 09:53:21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>26,452</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23351395</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/RissaWolf/pseuds/RissaWolf</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Your name is Piper Kholson, a caretaker at Madame Grimsley's Home for Vagrant Children. </p><p>A Whaler intrudes in your bedroom, seeking his lost pouch. Overseers storm the orphanage in pursuit of the heretic, and arrest you both. That cruel twist of fate catapults you into a world of blood, corruption, and wanton flesh. Marked by the Outsider, you are forced to leave your old life behind--but hold true to your convictions. The Empire has fallen into chaos. Empress Jessamine has been assassinated by Daud, and the Royal Protector is framed. </p><p>You will do anything to protect Emily Kaldwin. </p><p>You break just about every one of Seven Strictures, as you contend with every depraved scoundrel Dunwall has to offer. Sexually repressed zealots, sadistic Lords, dangerously sexy assassins, and one enigmatic god--the temptations never end.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Corvo Attano/Original Female Character(s), Corvo Attano/Reader, Custis Pendleton/Original Character(s), Daud (Dishonored)/Original Female Character(s), Daud (Dishonored)/Reader, Morgan Pendleton/Original Character(s), The Outsider (Dishonored)/Original Female Character(s), The Outsider/Reader</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>70</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Whaler in Black</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello, dear readers.</p><p>So this story will be something VASTLY different than what I usually write. I have BIG PLANS for this fic.</p><p>Ideas came to me while working on Call of the Void. The kind I desperately need to write down just to clear my head. So, this story now exists. Porn with plot, yay! </p><p>If you're looking for shameless promiscuity, this is the story for you. Piper is going to sleep with pretty much everyone she comes across. There will be something for everyone (just about). Bondage, threesomes, sadomasochism, and more. *Consent is mandatory in real life*. I cannot stress that enough. This story is roleplay and fantasy. I added the non-con tag for sexual harassment/assault, but there will be no rape. Piper is an empowered character who uses sex to her advantage. </p><p>Every chapter will come with a summery and trigger warnings. So be sure to check before you read! </p><p>Piper (aka you) is not a meek protagonist. So expect critical levels of sass and a take-charge attitude. </p><p>All that said, enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>An intruder clambered in through your bedroom window, seeking his lost pouch. A Whaler dressed in all black. Overworked and lonely, you give into temptation.</p><p>Trigger warnings for: Violence, sex, mentions of child abuse, foul language.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-- 3rd Day, Month of Earth, 1837 --</p><p>Corrupted bone and wanton flesh...That was all it took.</p><p>Your once humble life had become a twisted, garish shadow of its former self. Never before had you been arrested for mischief or serious crimes. Your record was clean as a whistle. It had to be, when dozens of lives depended on you being attentive and dedicated to their wellbeing. </p><p>Yet here you were, locked in a cage like a wolfhound, accused of a crime for which you would surely burn.</p><p><em>Outsider's Eyes</em>...you should have known this was coming.</p><p>Filth caked the exposed skin over your legs and arms, from two days of being locked in a cell, with narry even a stained mattress to lay down on. Heretics were not considered human, after all, so why offer such human comforts? Huddled on the floor, shivering and trying to readjust your soiled nightgown, you could do nothing but weep. Some tears were for yourself, but your heart broke for the children left without a caretaker. </p><p>"Wake up, filthy witch," a harsh voice spat. </p><p>Ice cold, soapy water splashed over your body, drenching your face and torso. A sharp gasp escaped your chapped lips, before you choked and jolted up from the floor. Spitting like a feral alleycat, you scrambled away from the iron bars of the holding cell. There stood a uniformed Overseer, who unceremoniously dropped the emptied wash bucket and kicked it aside. Sopping wet, the paper thin fabric of your nightgown clung to your frame. It was practically transparent.</p><p>Arms crossed protectively over your chest to shield it from the bastard's view, you glared at him with fire in your eyes. Caring after children did not make you a meek, weak-willed type of woman. Your lips were blue and quivering, but you hissed fiercely, "I am <em>not </em>a witch!"</p><p>"Perhaps not," the Overseer considered, waltzing closer to the bars, as keys jingled loose from his belt. Anxiety and fear slugged you in the gut, but you refused to cower when the door screeched open on its hinges. The Overseer watched you from behind that wicked mask. His eyes were hidden, but you could feel a perverse gaze raking over your body.</p><p>The sexually repressed bastard.</p><p>Walking forward, he advised in a low tone, "If I were you, I would be cooperative. Your innocence shall be tested, Miss Piper Kholson."</p><p>"Tested?" you nearly choked on your own tongue as the shivers became violent. The cold pierced deep into your bones. Fighting to retain some dignity by covering your chest, you resisted the urge to rub your frozen hands together and asked, "What kind of test, Overseer?"</p><p>"Brother Markus."</p><p>Rather than answering your question directly, the Overseer turned his head and called for someone. His superior officer. Moving aside, he tucked both hands behind his back and faced the door leading out of the cell. Unseen but lurking within earshot, another Overseer approached at a methodical pace. When he stood before you, it was difficult not to press back against the cold brick wall. </p><p>Overseer Markus lifted a white gloved hand toward your face. You leaned away, but there was nowhere to go. Taking a lock of your dripping wet, tangled hair between his fingers, he twirled it almost playfully. </p><p>"Brother Vincent," he spoke finally. His voice was not harsh, but the sudden verbal expression made you flinch, "Prepare the Chair."</p><p>----------¤----------</p><p>-- 1st Day, Month of Earth, 1837 --</p><p>"Miss Piper. Byron won't stop jingling his coins. Please tell him to stop, I can't sleep." </p><p>A child's voice roused you from a troubled half-sleep. Small hands clasped onto your forearm, causing you to jolt as the physical sensation mingled with the unnerving vision of glittering black eyes and a pale face. </p><p>"Did you have a bad dream?" the seven year old girl asked, withdrawing her hands after you woke with a sharp gasp. Her round, freckled face was nowhere close to the haunting visage in your dream, which quickly faded into obscurity. </p><p>"Lillian? What are you doing out of bed at this hour?" </p><p>Thick shadows condensed in your bedroom, kept at bay only by the dim street lamp buzzing in the street outside the window. It was the middle of the night.</p><p>Pouting her lips to garner the utmost sympathy for her poor little self, Lillian whined, "It's Byron. He's got a bunch of coins and they make this <em>awful</em> noise when he shakes them." </p><p>Closing your eyes so as not to roll them, you exhaled a quiet sigh through your nostrils. "Just ignore him, Lillian. You know he pesters you on purpose..." you dismissed her complaint at first, before her words truly resonated. Sitting up on your elbows, you frowned, asking for clarity, "Did you say he has a 'bunch of coins'?" </p><p>Lillian nodded, fidgeting with the frayed hem of her nightgown. The child was a professional tattler and skillful manipulator; a vindictive little thing. Ever since Byron took up residence two weeks ago, she was bound and determined to cause him perpetual suffering. As such, you were highly skeptical of any accusations from her lips. However, Byron was known for his thievery.</p><p>Last week, you nearly expired from heart failure when you found him shooting rats in the back alley. Somehow, the sticky-fingered boy had swiped a pistol right off one of the City Watchmen. It had taken you an hour of pleading with the City Watch not to arrest him. Considering his age, they had the mind and authority to haul him off to Coldridge, but they were lenient on account of his past.</p><p>The seventeen year old boy was a bloody mess when the City Watch dropped him on the doorstep of Madame Grimsley's Home for Vagrant Children. No documents could be found on Byron's parentage, or his place of birth; it was like he did not exist. He stowed away aboard one of the trading ships hailing from Karnaca. A fisherman caught him attempting to steal his catch, so he did what any "reasonable" gentleman would--he beat him to a pulp.</p><p>Byron refused to speak of his past, but the scars marking his flesh told the story well enough. Dozens of welts on his back, forearms, and legs--not one inch of him was unmarked. There was even a symbol branded on his chest; a family crest, or some insignia nobody could identify. The City Watch deduced that he was most likely an escaped victim of the slave trade.</p><p>A known thief, too young to work, in possession of coins... You heaved a sigh, and rose out of bed to fetch your slippers and a pullover. Lillian practically danced her way down the hall, eager to watch Byron get an earful; her sadism was quite disturbing. You were just glad she chose to wake <em>you</em>, and not Madame Grimsley. That would not end well for anyone caught in her warpath, especially not the little tattler. </p><p>"Byron! Miss Piper is gonna feed you to the rats!" Lillian cackled as she pranced into the room where the children slept. Twenty-four beds were arranged in the long, open chamber that made up the south wing of the second floor. Only fifteen children occupied them, including Lillian as she leapt into her bed like an excited jackrabbit. </p><p>"Thank you for the announcement, Lillian. I can handle it from here," you told her with a hard look of disapproval. <em>Note to self: Teach the mean spirited child some empathy. </em></p><p>Settling down under her covers, Lillian stifled a self-satisfied giggle before she pretended to fall asleep. Her little ears would be listening, most assuredly, for Byron to be scolded and punished.</p><p>After you did a quick head count, ensuring all the children were present and asleep--or, fake sleeping--in their beds, you moved toward the darker corner of the room. A curtain had been hung from a clothesline to section off Byron's area. Your idea, since he was twice the age of most of the other children. </p><p>"Byron," you called in a soft tone, before moving the curtain aside to enter the sectioned off area. Beyond the curtain was a larger bed. With lots of hard work, you managed to scrape enough money together for him. He was quite a tall, lanky boy whose feet would dangle off the other beds meant for smaller children. </p><p>The reclusive seventeen year old was lying down, facing the wall with his back to you. The covers were drawn up to his neck, partially obscuring his face. Only his head was visible, where his pale blond hair stuck up at odd angles. A tinkling sound could be heard, as he played with the coins that Lillian mentioned. </p><p>"Byron, what's keeping you awake?" you asked him with genuine concern. It was quite late at night; the day trip had certainly taken a lot out of <em>you</em>. Seating yourself on the edge of the bed, you restrained the natural urge to touch his shoulder. The boy reacted to the softest touch like he was being whipped, or branded with hot iron.</p><p>"I didn't steal it," he immediately defended himself, depsite your non-accusatory approach. "I found it near a dumpster, by the docks where you took us after breakfast."</p><p>"Alright, I believe you. Can I see what you found?" you spoke patiently, and smiled although he wasn't looking.</p><p>Byron sighed as if rolling over was a great inconvenience, but obliged. He sat upright, allowing the blankets to fall and unveil what he clutched against his chest. A black leather pouch, with a strap meant to attach to a belt. Hesitant, the seventeen year old unclasped the pouch, opening it up to show off its contents.</p><p>In that moment, his questionable possession of coin no longer mattered. What concerned you was the object secured to the inner fold. A fragment of bone affixed to metal, with odd symbols carved into it. Such objects were expressly forbidden by the Abbey. </p><p>"Well, it looks like you struck rich," you joked, doing your best not to react harshly out of panic or fear. "Why don't I--" your voice hitched, forcing you to swallow and wet your lips, "Why don't I hold onto it for you, tonight?"</p><p>Byron furrowed his eyebrows and frowned, unenthused by that suggestion. "What for?"</p><p>"Safe keeping. Madame Grimsley won't take kindly to seeing you with all that coin," you reasoned, the words ringing true. The Madame was not a patient, kind or understanding woman. Her methods of discipline were highly disagreeable--and downright cruel--so you usually opted to handle things on your own. "I can hold onto it for you, just until tomorrow." </p><p>After some deep consideration, Byron placed the pouch onto the bed within your reach. He looked quite unhappy about doing so, but the display of trust was not lost on you. Reaching into the pouch, careful not to accidentally touch the cursed object, you fished out a coin and offered it to Byron. He accepted the gesture with a smile that warmed your heart. </p><p>"Get some rest," you told him with a kind smile of your own, before you stood up. His hand suddenly caught your wrist, stopping you in your tracks. The urgency of the action startled you, along with the strength; this boy would soon be a young man.</p><p>Blue eyes wide in alarm, he sat upright in bed. In the dim light filtering through the window from the streets beyond, his face looked pale. In a hushed voice, he asked, "You can hear them too, right? The whispers."</p><p>Before he acknowledged it, you were intentionally blocking out the sound emitting from the bonecharm. Of course, you heard the high-pitched song and incomprehensible lyrics. The presence of the accursed object had disrupted your sleep even though it was several rooms away. </p><p>Being poked, prodded and yanked around by the children was a daily occurrence, but this was much different. Byron had gone white as a sheet, clinging to your arm; terrified of being alone in the dark with his thoughts. Two weeks of failing miserably to bond or reason with this boy lead to this moment. If you said the wrong thing, his defenses would flare up like a Wall of Light. </p><p>Sick with fear of persecution but unable to lie to this boy, you whispered, "Yes, I hear it, too."</p><p>Byron loosened his grip, relaxing once you confirmed he was not alone or going mad. Then he noticed the red mark left on your skin. Remorse twisted his features, as he realized he misjudged his own strength. "I'm sorry, Miss Piper," he apologized, rather ashamed.</p><p>"It's alright," you soothed, reaching out to ruffle his hair but quickly freezing. You almost drew back, but Byron held still rather than recoiling as he normally did. Hovering your hand for a second, you gently placed it atop his head. Brushing out a knot with your fingers, you thought of something to reward him for cooperating. "How about tomorrow, you help me pick out some things at the market? You can choose anything you want for dinner. Perhaps even dessert, if the prices are reasonable."</p><p>Byron smiled at the idea; a rare sight, which almost brought you to tears. He nodded, before settling back down into bed. "Good night," he told you, before rolling over to sleep.</p><p>"Good night, Byron," you responded, leaving him in peace. Outside the curtain, you lingered and blinked in absolute shock. Over the past few nights, he refused to speak two words to you unless they were '<em>go away'.</em> You feared that he would just disappear; run off to join the gangs, or worse. Tomorrow, you would show him there was still kindness and beauty in the world.</p><p>Back in the privacy of your bedroom, you pressed a hand to your lips and stared at the bonecharm. The cursed artifact continued to sing in its ethereal language.</p><p>You were hardly a religious woman, but the danger went far beyond mere beliefs. The Abbey of the Everyman had outlawed the possession of such objects. Anyone caught with one could be dragged off to face severe punishment. Most people were imprisoned for weeks; starved, whipped, and beaten. Others were tied to a pyre and burned alive for witchcraft.</p><p>A fucking <em>bonecharm</em>, in an orphanage.</p><p>You were about ready to start hyperventilating. Forcing yourself to inhale deep, calming breaths, you devised a foolproof plan. Tomorrow, you would discard the accursed object and the heretic's pouch. As for the coin; well, there was no real need to inform Madame Grimsley. In a few months, Byron would celebrate his eighteenth anniversary--based on the estimation of his age by a physician. He would be expected to work, and save up for the day he would be evicted from the orphanage. </p><p>It would be no crime, surely, if you hid the coin away for Byron's future departure. </p><p>For tonight, you decided to stash the heretic's pouch in your wardrobe, underneath dress clothes you never found the occasion to wear. Then you collapsed back into bed. Having wrangled fifteen children--the youngest being three--you were exhausted in every sense of the word.</p><p>At least, their spirits were lifted by the little trip to the docks. The Rat Plague had cast a gloomy atmosphere over the city. Even the children knew these were dark times.</p><p>Noisy chiming from your wardrobe kept you awake for another hour. Restless as the sea, you tossed and turned, but the bonecharm refused to fall silent. So distracted by the phantom whispers in your ear, you did not hear the footsteps on the roof.</p><p>A heavy thud, metallic clatter, and a muffled grunt came from nearby.</p><p>Lurching up, you stared at the dark, hooded figure crouched over the floorboards. The intruder had just clambered in through your window; you left it open a crack every night, for some fresh air. Reflecting the light from the street lamp outside, a sharp blade laid on the floor next to the intruder's boot. Panting heavily, they remained bent down while clutching their side, clearly injured.</p><p>Mouth open in a silent scream, you tossed off the blankets to flee, but the intruder moved in the blink of an eye. Unnatural, impossibly fast movement. Heavy bodyweight crashed down over your hips, as strong, gloved hands forced you back down against the mattress. Their hand clumsily fell over your mouth as you thrashed, accidentally slipping a finger inside. Before you could bite down, they recoiled with swift reflexes and readjusted to cover your mouth with their wide palm. You strained to scream, but the sound was weak, barely enough to echo off the walls.</p><p>"Be quiet," the intruder grunted, wrestling one of your hands down but unable to grab the other. Their voice was distinctly male. His identity was obscured by a gas mask, the kind workers used to wear in the slaughterhouses to protect their lungs from the fumes. One glass eye was shattered, but there was insufficient light, so you could not see into the socket. </p><p>Beating your free hand against his soild chest, you fought to get him off. Adrenaline was not enough; he overpowered you easily, relying mostly on his bodyweight. Fear nestled deep in your gut like cold, slippery eels, as you imagined what he might do. Nobody wanted to be violated against their will, but your fear centered around one of the children walking in as it happened. The very thought made you ill.</p><p>The masked intruder shook his head, noticing how you trembled and wept, interpeting what you were thinking. "Relax. If <em>that's</em> what I wanted, then I would go to the Golden Cat and pay for it, not a fucking orphanage." </p><p>Hearing the disgust in his voice in regard to <em>that </em>was oddly comforting. You stopped striking at him to save energy. He was barely affected by the blows, despite how your own bones ached. Your eyes briefly rested on his side, where the black fabric of his jacket was torn and discolored with blood. Someone cut him pretty good, but he still had no trouble pinning you down, or moving faster than your eyes could see.</p><p>"Where is it?" the intruder asked, looking around, before leaning over you to peer closer into your eyes. "My pouch. I know it's here, in this room. Where have you hidden it? Tell me, calmly."</p><p>Blinking away more tears, you nodded, and inhaled deeply to calm yourself when the stifling hand lifted from your mouth. If you screamed for help, that would only endanger the children. So, as calmly as a woman in your situation could, you answered, "My wardrobe. Over there, in the corner. Just take your things and leave, please." </p><p>"There, was that so terrible?" he teased, brushing a gloved hand across your cheek to wipe away the tears of fear that spilled. In the blink of an eye, he vanished and reappeared next to the wardrobe. Without needing to rifle through all your clothes, he knelt down to the bottom drawer and reached in, pulling out the leather pouch Byron found near the docks. He tossed it up and caught it, causing the coins to clatter while the bonecharm chirped high notes as if excited. </p><p>Hugging your knees to your chest, you watched him and prayed that he would leave the way he came, without a sound. </p><p>"Daud would have my head if the City Watch found this," the intruder muttered, chiding himself for being careless.</p><p>That name caught your attention. "Daud..." it suddenly came together; the City Watch slapped wanted posters all over, searching for tips on the whereabouts of the assassin and his crew. They called him the Knife of Dunwall, among other things. "You're one of those assassins people in the city are so afraid of. The Whalers." </p><p>Securing the pouch to his belt, the masked assassin was silent for an unsettling amount of time. Vanishing from beside the wardrobe, he was then crouching next to the window he entered through, retrieving his blade. <em>By the Void</em>...you had never seen a person move like that. It was both mesmerizing and horrifying. He became like ash in the wind, able to cross significant distance in less time than it took to blink.</p><p>"If I were," he began, twirling the awfully sharp blade with a flourish before he tucked it away, "Then you should pretend I was never here." </p><p>This encounter had the potential of ending with a blade through your gut. If that happened, the orphanage would fall back into the filthy, garish condition it had been in when you first started working here. The Madame--for all her talk of sheltering poor, vagrant children from the cold--was a cruel and heartless old hag. You scrubbed the floors until your fingers bled, and washed all the soiled linens with no aid. You even scrounged up your own coin to replace the moldy bread and expired fruit with fresh loaves and produce. Before you, the children had been merely <em>surviving</em>; you wanted them to live comfortably, in these dark times.</p><p>Of course, you did not wish to be killed regardless, but it broke your heart to imagine how the children would suffer.</p><p>"I must be imagining things," you nervously joked with the assassin, who watched you closely during the few moments of silence.</p><p>The Whaler nodded with a quiet cuckle before he turned and stepped up onto the windowsill. He crouched there, gripping the frame tight, exhaling shaky breaths within his mask. "Shit," he cursed, holding onto his side; the wound seemed to slow him down.</p><p>"Is something wrong?" you inquired, as he shifted to lean against the inside of the window frame. For a second, he almost toppled over the ledge, much wobblier than he had been a moment ago.</p><p>"Spent most of my energy getting here," he explained between ragged breaths. Muffled and strained, his voice betrayed the pain he was in; the wound was far worse than he let on. "Those fucking Overseers and their music boxes. I barely escaped. I just need to...rest a bit, if you don't mind." </p><p>Stepping into your natural role as caretaker, you moved to sit on the edge of your bed and waved him over. "Let me see."</p><p>The mask concealing his face made it impossible to see what he was feeling, but he was probably confused. Common people were not prone to giving medical help to trespassers. People had become far less hospitable, with the widespread fear of catching plague.</p><p>Shaking his head, the assassin lifted a gloved hand to dismiss your concern. "No, I'll be fine. Just...need to rest..." </p><p>Not even a second after speaking those words, he began to teeter over as the bloodloss made him dizzy. Leaping out of bed, you rushed over just in time to grab his shoulders, saving him from a nasty fall. Out of reflex, he came to, snatching hold of your throat and grabbing onto your forearm. He quickly realized what happened and lowered his defenses; you were not a threat.</p><p>"Well, if you insist," he joked with a light cough, embarrassed that he was in such a weakened state. </p><p>"I do," was your firm reply, before you pointed at the small lounge area where you had a table and two chairs. Occasionally, the children allowed an hour or two of quiet time, which you spent reading and sipping tea. "Now sit over there and wait. I need to grab some bandages."</p><p>"As you command." </p><p>What a smart ass. You squinted your eyes sharply at him, refusing to smile given the circumstances. Despite the scare he gave you earlier, it was difficult to be hostile.</p><p>Unable to use his powers, the injured assassin walked over to sit in one of the chairs. He watched you move toward the adjoining bathroom, where you retrieved a wooden box of medical supplies. There was a bottle of disinfectant, needles and thread for sutures, a few medical balms and several rolls of bandages.</p><p>"Jacket off," you instructed on your way back, in the same tone you used to get the stubborn children to listen. Setting the box on the table, you pulled the other chair closer but remained standing. </p><p>The Whaler obeyed, unfastening the buckles that secured the black jacket over his chest, including the belt around his waist. Removing his belt cautiously, he laid it over the table; relinquishing his sword, and the pouch he came to retrieve. When he stood unexpectedly, you tensed, but he merely did so to shed his jacket. Underneath, he wore a pitch black button shirt, the sleeves of which were tucked into his elbow-length gloves. Without prompting, he unbuttoned the front of his shirt to bare his chest and abdomen. Blood smeared his bronze skin, and the entire left side of his shirt was soaked. Droplets of blood fell over the floorboards.</p><p>Warmth burned in your cheeks as he stood motionless, looming close enough that you could hear his breath filtering through the gas mask.</p><p>Being unable to see his face was unnerving, but there was also something undeniably enticing about the mystery. Meanwhile, you wore next to nothing; the paper thin fabric of your nightgown hardly left anything to the imagination. Feeling quite exposed, you placed a hand on his chest, if only to keep him at bay. His pectoral muscles were impeccably firm, and his skin was feverishly hot, damp with sweat.</p><p>Flustered but refusing to show it, you instructed him calmly, "You can sit." </p><p>Doing as commanded, the Whaler lowered himself back down, holding onto the wound. A string of curses escaped his hidden mouth; crude Gristish phrases, spoken with the tongue of a native Serkonan. The man was in significant pain, but fighting not to show weakness. Rigid as a statue, he remained still while you began tending to the wound; a deep gash across his ribs, from the well-placed slash of a blade. </p><p>"Overseers did this?" you asked, making conversation to distract him while you cleaned away the blood with a damp rag.</p><p>"Yes," he answered in one word, clenching his fist tight and biting down on a growl when you applied pressure to the gash. "Fuck, that hurts."</p><p>"Perhaps you should avoid causing trouble then," was your cheeky response.</p><p>The Whaler chuckled. "Perhaps you're right," he acknowledged, oddly thoughtful, "But trouble seems to find me wherever I go."</p><p>"That's unfortunate." </p><p>"Tonight has been the exception to the rule."</p><p>Frowning, you gave him a puzzled look while rinsing blood from the rag in a bowl of water on the table. The confusion dissipated when you felt the weight of his gloved hand resting over your bare knee. </p><p>"Kindness is more rare than a rivercrust pearl in Dunwall. Most people would call for the City Watch, or finish me off themselves. If you let me fall, I would most likely be dead. I owe you a debt." </p><p>Distracted by the feeling of his hand gently squeezing your bare leg, you struggled to find words. The polished leather glided smoothly up your thigh in a sensual motion, tickling the sensitive skin and massaging over the muscle. <em>Slap him, make him stop, </em>your rational mind fiercely shouted. But the touch was not unwelcome; a guilty pleasure you reveled in. Growing bolder, his fingertips slowly ventured to brush over your inner thigh, igniting a heat between your legs that had you squirming. For a moment, you lost control, eyelids fluttering closed.</p><p>Then you regained your rational sense.</p><p>"Nonsense," you quickly huffed, snatching hold of his hand before it reached your most sensitive area. "I've dedicated my life to helping people. Children, mostly, but..."</p><p>"How noble of you," the masked assassin replied. Judging by his tone and inflection, the smug bastard was definitely smirking. Respectfully, he withdrew the hand from your thigh, but you found yourself mourning the loss of its touch.</p><p>"Stop distracting me. I need to focus, if you don't mind," you chastised him, unable to fight back the smirk creeping up your cheeks. He lifted his hands in surrender, prompting an eye-roll from you before you resumed dressing his wound. Once it was cleaned and stitched, you carefully wiped away the remaining traces of blood, then you applied bandages. He kept his hands to himself, quiet aside from the odd hiss or grunt of pain from the pressure. </p><p>When you finished, the Whaler bowed his head and crossed a fist over his chest in gratitude. "Thank you." </p><p>"An assassin with manners. Imagine that," you mused dryly, "I can barely get the little ones to thank me."</p><p>"You're quite strange yourself." </p><p>Folding your arms to mimick his posture, you retorted, "I'll take that as a compliment."</p><p>"As you should." </p><p>Damn, he was charming. For a man who murdered people for a living. It was wrong to feel attracted to such a person, whose face you would probably never see, but the way he touched you earlier... Crossing your legs only intensified the ache. A sensible woman would tell him to leave now, but you faltered.</p><p>"If you...need to rest longer," you paused to wet your lips before finishing coolly, "You can stay." </p><p>The Whaler unfolded his arms, gingerly prodding his wounded side to test how much pain it caused. He made no audible complaint, but he was in no rush to jump to his feet. "A generous offer," he remarked in that amused tone, "Am I to sleep among the other unfortunate vagrants?" </p><p>Laughter bubbled in your chest at the mental image of the assassin curled up in a child-sized bed. "No," you answered evenly, "You can sleep here." </p><p>Looking around, he seemed to be deciding where the most comfortable spot would be to curl up on the floor.</p><p><em>Outsider's cock, I'm horrible at this.</em> Nervous, you rubbed at the strange tingling sensation crawling up your arm and clarified, "In the bed, with me." </p><p>His eyebrows might have lifted then, silently contemplating what that implied. When you began to panic on the inside, worried that you were crossing a line, he leaned forward and stroked a hand over your cheek. </p><p>"With you," he repeated in a much lower, deeper tone, "It would seem I am at your mercy, then." </p><p>Providing hands-on care for over a dozen children every day of the week essentially forbade courtship, or any kind of private correspondence with men. It had been years since you were properly ravaged, and the pent up frustration had grown unbearable. Of course, snagging a guard from the City Watch or a shopkeeper for a quick "rendezvous" was tame, compared to, well, <em>this. </em></p><p>Disregarding the moral grey areas of having sex with a paid killer, you got up and straddled him over the chair. Cautious, you minded the bandaged wound over his side. The assassin had no qualms with being used. If he was in pain, he tolerated it, encouraging the motion of your hips with a frim grip on your ass. Part of you wanted to tear off his mask to kiss him, but it was best to leave his identity ambiguous. For all you knew, seeing his face would be a death sentence.</p><p>Riding his lap, you felt the hardness of his cock under the fabric of his trousers. <em>Quick to rise, </em>you thought with amusement. Perhaps he was just as deprived as you in that regard.</p><p>"What do you command?" the Whaler asked. His deep voice and breath shuddered within the confines of his mask, as the assassin emboldened you to dominate him.</p><p>"Touch me."</p><p>Loosening one hand from your hip, you guided it under your nightgown, between your thighs. Slick with the moisture dripping from your entrance, there was no resistance as he slid his gloved fingers inside. A soft moan came from your lips, as you rocked into the circular motions, supported by the arm he encircled around your waist. Using his thumb, he rubbed the exposed nerves of your clit. </p><p>Whimpering, you let go of his hand, clutching onto his shirt while tipping your head back. The slippery texture of his glove penetrating you was unlike anything you felt before. Shuddering and breathing heavily, you were so close, but you wanted more.</p><p>"Take me," you moaned, "Now."</p><p>There was a strange gust of wind, and a wave of dizziness as you were spilled onto the mattress. The assassin seemed to regain his strength and energy, transversing you both across the room. He dropped his trousers enough to expose his hard, throbbing cock. Nudging between your legs, he wasted no time sliding himself into your folds. Another moan escaped your quivering lips, louder than you meant it to be. Playfully covering your mouth, the Whaler proceeded to thrust his hips in hard, deep strokes. </p><p>Roaming a slippery hand over your body as he pumped in a consistent rhythm, the Whaler massaged every inch he could reach. Small cries of pleasure slipped from your parted lips, joined by his distinct grunts. Despite not being kissed, you felt euphoric; almost dazed by the surreal concept of being fucked by a masked stranger who climbed in through your window.</p><p>Legs wrapped around his waist, you controlled the intensity of each thrust until you came unraveled at the seams. Attentive and aware you were at your climax, he rubbed your clit. Muffling your groan under his hand, he continued the motion of his hips, pushing you over the edge of no return. Your back arched as your muscles seized, skin flushed and mouth open wide in ecstasy. </p><p>"By the Void," you whimpered softly, writhing on the mattress as relief loosened every once-taut fiber of your being. </p><p>Leaning down, The Whaler carassed your cheek as tenderly as if you were lovers. "Have I pleased you, Mistress?" he asked, sounding quite proud while seeking approval.</p><p><em>Mistress</em>. You had never been called such a thing, not even mockingly. Born to a humble shopkeeper and a former courtesan, you had never been considered a 'Lady' by title. If your parents had not paid for your education, you would be working at the Golden Cat instead. You would never reach the prestigious status of becoming the Mistress of some grand estate, or Baroness of a trading company.</p><p>It seemed like the assassin enjoyed being submissive, so you reached up to snag hold of his collar.</p><p>"Good boy. I think you've earned a reward," you praised him, indicating that he could finish now that you were satisfied.</p><p>A chuckle reverberated from within his mask. Gripping your hips, he resumed fucking you, becoming slightly rougher but not harsh. Inhaling sharply, you felt another orgasm building from the continuous stimulation. It was less intense, but just as enjoyable. The Whaler bit down on his own moan of pleasure, throwing his head back and pushing himself deep inside you as he finished. Then he settled down next to you, one arm slung over your abdomen. </p><p>For several moments, you laid together, catching your breath. Aside from the rare occasions one of the younger children slept next to you, most nights were quite lonely. You were accustomed to it, but now you realized just how much you needed this. To be held. </p><p>"What's your name?" the question sounded ridiculous to your own ears, but you were curious. Of course, you did not expect an honest answer. If he went around telling every lay his identity, he might as well turn himself in to the City Watch. </p><p>"Rodrigo," he responded, to your shock. It was possible he used an alias, or several different names due to his...<em>profession</em>, but it was better than nothing.</p><p>"My name is--"</p><p>Rodrigo suddenly jolted up, clamping a hand over your mouth and shushing you. </p><p>"Something's not right," was all he was able to say, before a dreadful music echoed down the corridors of the orphanage. It played loudly from the speakers of the intercom system, originating from the security room on the first floor. The Madame never played records any time of the day, and certainly never late into the night. This music was unlike anything you heard before; a grinding, undulating sound that could never be described as a pleasant melody.</p><p>Going rigid, the assassin emitted low growls of pain and breathed heavily, as if fighting some unseen force overtaking his body. As the music rose into a horrid crescendo, Rodrigo cried out, clutching at his head before he collapsed on top of you. His form seemed to shudder in and out of existence, as his muscles spasmed violently. </p><p>Heart pounding with fright, you grabbed onto his broad shoulders and asked in panic, "What's happening?" </p><p>"Overseers," he managed to choke out, while he attempted to push himself up, aware you were being crushed but unable to move without excruciating pain. "They followed me here. I'm...sorry..."</p><p>Overwhelmed by whatever force tormented him, Rodrigo went limp with a strangled gasp and his crushing weight bore down over your chest. In a panic, you struggled to wriggle free, using all the strength you could muster. Pressing a knee against his side, opposite of the knife wound, you managed to roll him over. </p><p>A loud thud and crash startled a scream from you, as someone kicked in the door. Several uniformed, masked men entered; three Overseers, come to seize the heretic who previously escaped their clutches.</p><p>"What have we here?" one Overseer spoke, waltzing in with his hands folded behind his back. Several more came running down the corridor, entering the room in a semi-circle formation to surround the bed.</p><p>Mortified by the situation you found yourself in, you shrank away when a pair of Overseers approached. They seized hold of the incapacitated Rodrigo, dragging his unconscious body from the room.</p><p>Huddled in a defensive ball of terror, you addressed the head Overseer with desperation, eyes gleaming with tears, "Please, Overseer, the children need me. Have mercy, I--"</p><p>One of the lower ranked Overseers lunged before you could plead your case, snatching hold of your elbow to rip you from the mattress. He dragged you across the room, toward the Overseer in command. The one manhandling you encircled a hand around the nape of your neck, controlling your movement. A sharp ache reverberated through your bones, as your knees were forced down hard onto the floorboards. </p><p>"Mercy," the Overseer in command repeated in a scathing tone, extending a hand to roughly grip onto your chin, "For a <em>whore</em> of the Outsider?"</p><p>"No, I assure you that's not--"</p><p>The taste of hot gunmetal filled your mouth as the Overseer struck you with a ruthless backhand. "Restrict your lying tongue, witch," he warned coldly, with the shake of his head. The derision was clear in his tone, as he continued, "How perverse, to use a place such as this to collude with the Outsider. Poisoning malleable young minds with your heresy. I urge you to recite the Strictures. Remember them well."</p><p>He then nodded to the Overseer behind you, who promptly curled a hand around your throat and forced a rag into your mouth. You choked on the fabric, inadvertently breathing in the fumes; chloroform, you realized, as your vision blurred. The last thing you heard were the children, screaming in fear of the intruding men and crying out your name.</p><p>Your vision faded as you tumbled through darkness, away from the pain and fear of the waking world.</p><p>Outside of all things, a figure stood watching, with eyes black as a starless night sky.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Outsider's Mark</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Held prisoner and tortured by Overseers, you feared death, or worse. Until a man with eyes black as a starless night offered you something you could not refuse: the Outsider's Mark.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Trigger warnings for the following: Sexual harassment/assault (not rape), non-consensual bondage, brief torture, and violence.</p><p>(Also, I give you PLOT!)</p><p>(Oh, and I am building up to Daud/Reader/Rodrigo, and eventually the other relationships I have tagged. There are a bunch of notes already written, I just have to string them together. I considered writing one-shots, but this is more fun. Forgive the wait--this is porn... WITH PLOT).</p><p>Just a disclaimer: This is ENTIRELY UNRELATED to my other fic, Call of the Void. Expect a slightly different depiction of the Outsider. </p><p>Enjoy!</p><p>**Edit: Minor revisions have been made to this chapter over time.**</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>"Your innocence shall be tested, Miss Piper Kholson."</em>
</p><p>
  <em>"Brother Vincent. Prepare the Chair." </em>
</p><p>------- ¤ ------‐</p><p>-- 3rd Day, Month of Earth, 1837 --</p><p>For all intents and purposes, the Overseers' dreaded Chair was not unique in appearance or function. Crafted of polished wood, it had four legs, back support, and a seat lacking proper cushion. The object itself was quite ordinary. What torment and humiliation one endured while seated upon it was another story.</p><p>Several tiresome, agonizing hours passed, during which you were forced to remain seated in the accursed Chair. You had no choice in that respect.</p><p>Strong belts of boiled leather strapped your wrists and ankles to the Chair's unyielding wooden frame. With your legs forced apart, the position felt very undignified and degrading. Being in a state of undress only worsened that feeling. The fabric of your nightgown had dried somewhat; as much as the cold, damp air would allow, but you shivered uncontrollably.</p><p>Your thighs ached from unsuccessfully wriggling to loosen the straps. Wherever the rough leather rubbed your skin had become inflamed. Dark bruises and blazing red welts marked both of your arms, where you had been whipped.</p><p>Blood dripped from several cuts where the harsh leather had torn into your flesh. </p><p>Shivering violently in the cold, you glared at the audiograph player arranged atop the small table a few paces away. From it, the voice of an Overseer recited the Seven Strictures on a continuous loop.</p><p>After relocating you from the holding cell to the accursed Chair, Overseer Markus prompted you to recite the Seven Strictures from memory. You were never a religious woman. Your opinion on the Abbey's teachings had changed from indifference to repugnance, based on their reputation for cruelty. Given the unflattering rumors of child abduction, harsh physical conditioning, and mistreatment of alleged heretics and their followers alike...</p><p>Well, suffice to say, you never bothered to memorize the bloody Strictures. </p><p>For every misspoken verse, every mispronunciation, every forgotten word, you recieved a lashing from Overseer Vincent. There was no forgiveness for the slightest mistake, and the Overseer was quite ruthless with a whip in hand.</p><p>Once they established you were not well-versed, the Overseers decided to give you time to refresh your memory. Once they switched on the audiograph player, they had promptly exited the room with simple instructions. '<em>Listen well, and learn the Strictures by heart. They shall illuminate the path of redemption through the darkness</em>.'</p><p>Since then, no one had come to check if you still drew breath. There were no windows or clocks to judge the time of day, but you estimated it had been over two hours.</p><p>Surrounded by featureless brick walls, there was nothing to occupy your mind except the constant, monotonous drone of the Seven Strictures.</p><p>One of the verses pricked your ear like an irksome barb.</p><p>
  <strong>"Restrict the wanton flesh. Truly, there is no quicker means by which a life can be upheaved and sifted than by the depredations of uncontrolled desire."</strong>
</p><p>There was unpleasant truth in those words, but your shame was not rooted in the hypocritical standards placed upon women. As the daughter of a former courtesan, you knew what dirty secrets nobles swept under their sabre-toothed-bear skin rugs. What depravity and inglorious decadence the elite members of society partook in at their soirees. The most respected families across the Isles had more than a few skeletons buried underneath their sprawling manors.</p><p>Religious zealots associated with the Abbey would be quick to condemn you, but few souls in Dunwall could proclaim themselves pure and blameless. Promiscuity was hardly an offense punishable by such harsh mistreatment.</p><p>Your only regret was not anticipating that Overseers would have tracked Rodrigo. Either he was a piss-poor assassin who could be easily taken by surprise, or the Overseers' wolfhounds followed the smell of his blood. </p><p>To the damned Void with being a 'proper lady'. You were not highborn, and you would never marry into wealth. What mattered the most to you--what you valued above all else in the world--was the safety and wellbeing of the children.</p><p>Lillian, Byron, and the others... They depended upon you, not only for their daily needs, but for guidance and affection. Madame Beatrice Grimsley was close with the Boyles. By sharing the wealth she inherited, as the last surviving member of the Grimsley lineage, most of Dunwall considered the Madame to be a bloody <em>saint</em>. In truth, the woman's heart was a twisted, loveless thing. You were the closest stand-in for a mother those children had in the world.</p><p>What further indignities and torture would you be subjected to, before these bastard Overseers realized you were not a witch? Perhaps they intended to leave you to starve, or perish from the cold. You were doomed to listen to the Seven Strictures in perpetuum, until you were consumed by the Void.</p><p>Death sounded preferable to another hour of self-righteous preaching. Without a drink of water, you would not last another two days in a cell, or sitting in this fucking Chair...</p><p>"<em>What a dull end to a life with such...potential."</em></p><p>Unnatural wind stirred the hair around your bare neck, as the speaker manifested out of nowhere. There were no audible cues that someone entered the room. But a person most assuredly stood behind the Chair, in your blind spot. </p><p>"Who..." </p><p>Cold, silky fingertips lightly skittered over your exposed shoulders, causing you to fall silent. It was akin to a phantom sensation; the kind conjured by a paranoid, overactive imagination. Starved and beaten, deprived of water and proper rest, it was possible you were hallucinating...</p><p>No, perhaps you were dreaming.</p><p>Surely, though, it took more than a couple days without food and water before one began succumbing to delirium?</p><p>Chapped and quivering, your lips were unable to form words. It was best not to converse with hallucinations anyway, unless you wanted to be found guilty of witchcraft. Hearing voices others could not signified a weak, heretical mind in accordance with the Abbey's teachings. To commune with dark spirits was heresy of the highest order, punishable by execution.</p><p>The person standing behind the Chair was no Overseer. You knew that deep in your bones.</p><p>
  <em>"If you truly desire to fade into oblivion, then who am I to interfere?" </em>
</p><p>There was a sardonic lilt to his words. He was testing the waters, tempting you with some alternative shrouded in ambiguity. Tense in the Chair, you felt the unseen visitor hinge forward with his hands draped lightly over your shoulders. His otherworldly presence was strong, like icy waves crashing forth over the sand; an overwhelming tide which threatened to drag weaker swimmers into murky depths. </p><p>An odd, misplaced scent tickled your nose; the salty perfume of ocean spray, damp earth, and fragrant wood smoke like burnt spices. It stirred a childhood memory of an evening stroll along the rocky shorelines of Serknonos, a stones' toss from the spice-trader's stall at the marketplace, following a rather fierce storm in the Month of Rain.</p><p>Directly beside your ear, the phantom theorized in a low, darkly alluring voice, "<em>Although, I suspect what you truly desire is far less mundane."</em></p><p>Feather light and teasing, his fingertips glided almost sensually from your shoulder, along the length of your left arm. As he did so, the mysterious stranger emerged from your blind spot. Cold flames licked over your skin wherever his fingers made contact. Soft hands, with long fingers, each movement delicate and calculated; like the graceful hands of a pianist. The surreal effects of his touch were strangely invigorating. </p><p>There was no need to ask of his name. </p><p>The Outsider appeared in the form of a handsome young man, roughly between twenty and twenty-five years of age. Rather tall and lean in stature, he was dressed in a refined black jacket with silver accents, and matching trousers. His complexion was pale alabaster, flawless as a river-crust pearl. Refined cheekbones and a sleek, hairless jawline gave him a sharp, elegant beauty, softened by full lips. Well groomed, his glossy black hair resembled the ruffled feathers of a crow. </p><p>And his eyes.</p><p>Black and unfathomable as a starless night sky, those eyes peered down at you with deep interest. It was quite unnerving to have the undivided attention of a god.</p><p>"H-hello," unable to think of anything else, you greeted him out of habit. Your frantic heartbeat gradually slowed to a somewhat normal rhythm--but not quite calm. Despite his rather striking, otherwordly appearance, you were more fascinated than afraid. </p><p>Standing before you, the god smirked at the casual nature of the greeting. In a gesture that was suprisingly friendly, and human, he placed a ringed hand over your bound one. A soft touch, spreading the cold flame farther; it danced along the skin of your arm, shoulder, and tingled down your spine.</p><p>Observing your calm reaction, the god cocked his head to one side, musing aloud, "<em>How fascinating. Most people quake with fear when I appear to them. But in you, I detect something...unusual. You seem to be relieved. I wonder how come?</em>" </p><p>Memories trickled in like cold rainwater through the crumbling shingles of a leaky roof. For weeks, you had dreamt of the Outsider. Sometimes he would speak, whispering things you never remembered upon waking. Although, you woke feeling confused and on edge; like something catastrophic was about to happen. You dismissed it as common paranoia, wrought about by the Rat Plague. Often, the god's presence disrupted nothing; he would merely peer into your slumbering mind, observing passively. To what end, you had no inkling.</p><p>You were never frightened by the Outsider, because for most of your life, you believed him to be mere superstition. A mythical being of folklore, conjured only by the paranoia and fear perpetuated by the Abbey of the Everyman. For many, he was an otherworldly villain--a fiend, intent on corrupting their precious spirits. To others, he was an ethereal comfort in times of desperate need. Worshippers of the Void god constructed shrines from wood and wire, and kept talismans of bone, believing the Outsider could bestow them with good health and fortune. Perhaps even arcane power.</p><p>None of it seemed <em>real</em>, and you never cared enough to dwell on such things until the Whaler in Black clambered in through your bedroom window. Everything you once believed crumbled, then, along with the foundation of your life.</p><p>"Well, I suppose I'm relieved that you're not an Overseer," was your cheeky retort, as you braved those glittering black eyes.</p><p>There was nothing malicious about him, or the manner in which he spoke. The god's expression was somewhat blank, bordering on apathetic, but there was immeasurable depth to his gaze. His eyes beheld the world with curiosity that was almost childlike, but through a lense of cynicism. How long had the Outsider lived, watching people from the lonely expanse of the Void? What dark thoughts intermingled with the countless atrocities and bountiful wonders he saw?</p><p>Inexplicably, he had taken interest in your plight. What compelled the Outsider to visit <em>you</em>, personally, out of all the people in the Isles? Injustice and suffering were not unique to Dunwall. Although, the most jaded of its inhabitants begged to differ.</p><p>It took more than a few lashings and two days of starvation to break your fiery spirit. Leveling a guarded stare at the god, you ventured to ask, "<em>Should</em> I be afraid of you, Outsider?" </p><p>The god chuckled; a sound that reverberated off the damp brick walls and quickened your pulse, melodic and spine-tingling at once. He strolled a few paces away, tucking one hand casually behind his back. The ringed fingers of his other hand trailed curiously over the audiograph player, almost experimentally, like he expected the object to repel his touch.</p><p>The Seven Strictures were still being recited, over and over, but your ears had gone deaf to that blase, toneless droning. </p><p><em>"Most people fear what they cannot understand. It is the nature of man. To seek and destroy that which poses a threat to their way of life,"</em> the Outsider spoke with a subtle, playful melancholy. He seemed to be referring to the unchecked zealotry of the Abbey, with a smug glittering in his raven-like eyes. Perhaps he was amused by the fact he freely walked into the Overseers' midst.</p><p>There he stood, in the fortress of a religious order which so voraciously opposed him, unhindered and unabated.</p><p>Holger Square, the Abbey's base of operations in Dunwall, home to the Office of the High Overseer himself. You found it difficult not to smirk, imagining the reaction of Thaddeus Campbell, if the man--by some bizarre twist of fate--happened to waltz into the room. How mortified he would be, confronted by the Outsider in the underbelly of his beloved fortress.</p><p>The Outsider smirked then, perhaps privy to your thoughts and equally tickled by the fantasy.</p><p>Condensed shadows rose from the Void god's shoulders, you noticed, curling in the air like tendrils of smoke. Some coils of dark shadow became solid in form, imitating the sharp, flicking motions of eels slithering amidst the sludgy sediment of the Wrenhaven.</p><p>In that same even-tempered, vaguely amused tone, the god proposed a rather scathing analysis, "<em>Fear has a way of twisting the heart, and warping the mind. Those who are consumed by delusions of grandeur often become that which they seek to destroy." </em></p><p>Despite your battered, fatigued state, you were curious about the purpose of his impromptu visit. What had provoked his sudden pique of interest, that he chose this specific moment to appear in the flesh? It seemed like he was tipping you off, hinting at some deeper meaning to his somber musings, but the cryptic nature of his words made it difficult to understand exactly what he meant.</p><p>Seeking to know more, you questioned, "What are you implying? What does it have to do with me? I'm just a caretaker." </p><p>The Outsider tilted his head a fraction, as if deciding whether or not to elaborate. Then he vanished unexpectedly, becoming enveloped in a dense cloud of Void smoke. Tiny shards of what appeared to be obsidian rock crumbled into dust as they fell, leaving no trace on the stone floor where the god once stood. </p><p>Someone else had entered the room--you heard the metal door creak on its ungreased hinges, followed by two pairs of footsteps, one approaching fast while the other lingered behind to lock the door. </p><p>A gloved hand roughly snagged hold of your jaw, digging their strong fingers hard into your cheeks. Half-leaning around the Chair, gripping the backrest for stability, was Overseer Markus. He forced you to look up at his masked face.</p><p><em>Outsider's Eyes...</em>how you despised the horrid, gold-plated visage these zealots donned. Compassionless, rigid, and scornful. It was meant to resemble their idol, the first High Overseer of the Dunwall sect, Benjamin Holger, but they appeared inhuman. To the people of Dunwall, that face symbolized the Abbey's domineering presence in the city. Their heavy-handed, ruthless methods of rooting out heretics tended to end in bloodshed; the Overseers were feared more than respected, and in Dunwall, fear kept eyes downcast and voices hushed. </p><p>"What sort of heretical incantations were you muttering, witch?" </p><p>Curling your fingers tight, you were unable to speak with his restrictive grasp over your chin, so you settled upon glaring at that awful mask.</p><p>Overseers were rumored to have uncanny perception when it came to sensing Void magic. Some could smell it, like a stench upon one's very soul. Would they know the Outsider had come--could they smell the lingering notes of saltwater and earth on your skin?</p><p>"Perhaps she was practicing her Strictures, Brother," Overseer Vincent reasoned with a humorous, sarcastic tone. Far too chipper, he strolled over to the audiograph player, switching it off before the loop could repeat for the umpteenth time.</p><p>Overseer Markus gave a skeptical <em>humph</em> as he considered that possibility. Loosening his bruising grip from around your jaw, he lightly brushed a thumb over your chapped lips. He loomed so close, you expected the cold metal lips of his dreadful mask to press against your mouth. There was no strength left in your fatigued muscles to wrench away, if he felt so inclined. </p><p>"Have you prepared yourself, Miss Kholson?" he inquired, lingering in your personal space. With him so near, you wished to vanish like smoke.</p><p>Overseer Vincent spoke up from where he stood by the audiograph player, "Shall we begin, then, Brother Markus?" </p><p>"Yes, I believe we should continue with the Cleansing," Overseer Markus responded, when you refused to speak. It was of no consequence to him, if you were unprepared. Stepping back from the Chair, he walked to cross in front of you, before circling around into your blind spot. "I believe Miss Kholson has been given plenty of time to familiarize herself with the Strictures."</p><p>"Piper Kholson. If you would, recite the Seven Strictures in the order of which I request them," Overseer Vincent instructed, stepping in to stand in front of you. He seemed far too eager for the Cleansing ritual to begin. Clutched behind his back was the whip; your incentive to remember the teachings of the Abbey. </p><p>The mere thought of being struck again caused your throat to constrict, as your mouth had gone bone dry hours ago. Would you even be capable of pronouncing the words correctly? </p><p>"Now. Begin with the first." </p><p>Overseer Markus had moved to stand behind the Chair, where he placed both hands over your shoulders. A man of intimidating height, he towered above you; it was discomforting, to feel him lean against the backrest.</p><p>"Surely you know the first Stricture," Markus prompted when you were unable to speak, adding some weight to the gloved hands over your shoulders. His fingers pressed into your muscles, as if to massage away the tension, but his touch only worsened your anxiety. "Have you forgotten the words? Brother Vincent, perhaps you can assist her. Recite the first line, if you would."</p><p>"Restrict the wandering gaze that looks hither and yonder for some flashing thing that easily catches a man's fancy in one moment, but brings calamity in the next." </p><p>Eyes closed, you focused on the words and attempted to wet your chapped lips to no avail. In a hoarse voice, you managed to finish the verse, "For the eyes are never tired of seeing...nor are they quick to spot illusion. A man whose gaze is corrupted is like a warped mirror that has traded beauty for ugliness and ugliness for beauty," you paused to rest your aching throat before finishing, "Instead, fix your eyes to what is pure, and then you will be able to recognize the profane monuments of the Outsider."</p><p>"Very good," Overseer Markus praised, before lifting a finger in a gesture of pause, "However, I fear you were off by a few words." </p><p>"What?" you croaked, wriggling nervously against your restraints. </p><p>"Brother Vincent. Please recite the final verse correctly."</p><p>"Instead, fix your eyes to what is <em>edifying</em> and to what is pure," Overseer Vincent corrected your mistake coolly, whilst bringing the whip out from behind his back. Unraveling the coiled leather, he flicked it toward the floor; the resulting, sharp crack made you flinch. In slow, measured steps, he repositioned himself at proper striking distance, before he finished reciting the first Stricture, "And then you will be able to recognize the profane monuments of the Outsider." </p><p>Inflamed and bloody from the previous session, your arms were in dire need of a good cleaning. How you longed for one of Sokolov's soothing balms...Another several lashings would likely cause irreparable damage, especially with Overseer Vincent swinging the whip. The rotten son of a Hagfish gleaned a sick pleasure from inflicting pain, given how his breath shuddered ever so quietly within his mask every time he cracked the whip against your tender flesh. </p><p>You closed your eyes, anticipating the searing hot impact of the leather as it ripped into your bare skin. Instead, the soft fabric of gloved fingers stroked over your cheek, drying the stream of fresh tears. </p><p>"A minor slip of the tongue," Overseer Markus interjected, sounding much kinder than he truly was. The hand caressing your cheek was far too gentle; perhaps meant to lull you into a false sense of security before causing more pain. "We shall forgive it, just this once. I see tears of repentance, Brother. A good sign. Let us continue, in the hope that her corrupted spirit may be purged of the Outsider's dark influence." </p><p>"Very well," Overseer Vincent acknowledged his superior, lowering the whip and resuming a passive stance; his broad shoulders deflated in a way that betrayed his disappointment. "What of the Third Stricture, Miss Kholson? Enlighten us."</p><p>Shit. You had memorized them in order; the words became jumbled if you attempted to recall them at random.</p><p>
  <em>"Restrict the restless hands, which quickly become the workmates of the Outsider."</em>
</p><p>That voice came again, disembodied, whispering the sacred words directly into your ear with the silken tongue of a poet. Startled by the unexpected assistance--and the supple lips which, you swore, dragged across your cheekbone--you gasped sharply. To avoid raising suspicion, you masked the outburst by rolling your tense shoulders; playing it off as pain from cramped muscles. Glancing over toward Overseer Vincent, you detected no adverse reaction. Only you heard the Outsider speak. He and Overseer Markus seemed oblivious to the Outsider's presence in their midst. </p><p>Neither of them were truly devout, nor were they attuned to recognizing those touched by the Void, or the god himself. How sickening, to imagine how many innocents were tortured and executed at their hands. Who else before you was forced to sit in the Overseers' wicked Chair, at the nonexistent mercy of their untrustworthy judgement? </p><p>"<em>Unfettered by honest labor, they rush to sordid gain, vain pursuits, and deeds of violence. Of what value are the hands that steal and kill and destroy?"</em> the Outsider recited the Third Stricture with the utmost conviction. Perhaps entertaining himself, as well as saving you from unnecessary pain. Unseen, like a dark spactre, he stood to your left. There was the lightest touch of a palm laid over your hand, steadying its anxious trembling, as he finished, "<em>Instead</em>,<em> put your hands to the plow, the fork, and the spade. For even the lowliest labor that is rigorous squeezes the muscles as a sponge, rinsing impurities from the mind and body</em>."</p><p>Overseer Vincent had begun twisting the whip, growing impatient as it had taken you a few moments to answer. Before he could strike you for the prolonged pause, you repeated the Stricture as the Outsider had so kindly recited for you. </p><p>"Magnificent," Overseer Markus remarked, sounding quite pleased, "You have vastly improved since your initial exam, my dear. Please, Brother, let us continue." </p><p>Overseer Vincent peered at you from behind his mask, seeming equally impressed with how quickly you learned the Strictures in the few hours you were left alone. During the last miserable session, you had been unable to recall half the verses and stumbled over the words. For these heretical infractions, you had been whipped so many times you stopped counting. </p><p>"The Seventh Stricture," Vincent requested.</p><p>And so the Outsider whispered the words into your ear, which you repeated with a few pauses in between so as not to raise suspicion. All the while, you squirmed anxiously in the Overseers' Chair, sick with fear whilst secretly relishing the source of your knowledge was heresy of the highest order. How satisfying it would be to see their reactions, if you brought to their attention the god they despised could speak the Seven Strictures with more fervor and conviction than any High Overseer.</p><p>Vincent would request the Strictures, and, in turn, you would repeat verbatim whatever the Outsider whispered. This continued until there was but one final Stricture left to be recited.</p><p>"Remarkable," Overseer Markus sounded awestruck, positively marveling over how quickly you memorized the precious fucking Strictures by heart. He stepped around from behind the Chair to stand in front of you; his posture was non-threatening, but you knew better than to let down your guard.</p><p>"Well done, Miss Kholson. You have impressed me with your newfound devotion."</p><p>"What now, Overseer?" you asked him in a listless tone, frustrated that you were still bound and confined to the Chair. "What more must I do, before I can return to the children?"</p><p>"Ah yes, the children. You are the Primary Caretaker at Madame Grimsley's Home for Vagrant Children. Is that correct?"</p><p>Madame Beatrice Grimsley--in all her wondrous generosity--had promoted you to the title of Primary Caretaker. An empty gesture, considering the fact you were the only soul in Dunwall who survived more than a few weeks under her lash. Aside from visitors--teachers and physicians, or the occasional guests like Anton Sokolov, and the Boyles--you were the <em>sole </em>caretaker. The Madame funded the orphanage with her inheritance, but you managed it. Your tireless efforts kept the children well groomed, fed, and--if the stars aligned--out of mischief.</p><p>Hoping the Overseers would understand how important you were to the children, you nodded, "I am."</p><p>"Tell me, then, Miss Piper Kholson," Overseer Markus moved in closer. He chuckled at something, before placing a hand over the backrest so he could lean over you. Peering down into your eyes behind that horrid mask, he asked rather indelicately, "Did the filthy heretic force himself upon you? Or does the Madame regularly employ whores to look after children?"</p><p>Volatile anger boiled like whale oil in your blood. These sadistic bastards could torture you all they liked, but you refused to be verbally demeaned or disrespected. At least, not when it came to those you cared so deeply for.</p><p>"I dedicated my life to those children. I love them with my whole heart!" you defended fiercely. "Call me whatever you like, Overseer, but don't question my integrity as a caretaker."</p><p>"If that were true, you would not have harbored such a dangerous criminal. I will ask you again," Overseer Markus persisted, reaching his other hand to grip your chin, preventing you from looking anywhere else but directly at him. "Were you taken by force, or did you spread your legs readily?" </p><p>Nothing prevented you from claiming that the Whaler in Black had forced himself upon you. Or that he threatened the safety of the children, if you refused his advances. Perhaps it would help plead your case. But your conscience argued it would be wrong to fabricate such a falsehood, even if he was destined for the hangman's noose. Rodrigo had been...respectful, all things considered.</p><p>What a cruel irony, that you had been safer at the mercy of a fucking <em>assassin</em> than in the hands of these Overseers.</p><p>When you held silent, Overseer Markus posed another question, "Do you know the Sixth Stricture? Recite it, in its entirety." </p><p>There was no need for the Outsider to assist you, then, as you answered with a vicious edge in your raspy voice, "Restrict the wanton flesh. Truly, there is no quicker means by which a life can be upheaved and sifted than by the depredations of uncontrolled desire," you paused, reflecting on how much you resented such rigid, close-minded teachings. With a scowl, you continued, "What avail is the concourse of a prostitute? The attention of a loose companion? Nothing. And what of the fruit of such unions? Only sorrow is born, only misery is multiplied; within these things, the Outsider dwells."</p><p>Those words left a foul taste in your mouth. </p><p>"I daresay, you recite the Strictures quite beautifully for a whore of the Outsider," Overseer Markus sneered, demeaning you further, "Do you not agree, Brother?" </p><p>"Yes, Brother. I was almost moved to tears," Overseer Vincent commented with a low chuckle, shifting his rigid stance to one almost too casual as he stood nearby. </p><p>"I am not--" your indignant response was cut off when Overseer Markus unexpectedly laid a hand over your crotch.</p><p>Heat flared up in your cheeks, rivalling the cold, writhing dread in your stomach. Unable to snap your legs closed to fend off the intrusion, you wrenched against the straps binding you to the Chair. There was no discerning his emotions based on his expression, behind that stoic mask, but you knew the sexually repressed pervert gleaned pleasure from your powerlessness.</p><p>A pious man devoted to the Seven Strictures would not be touching you in such a manner. The white-gloved hand rubbing over the fabric of your panties was experienced; aware of the effect the motion of his fingers had on a woman's anatomy. Tensing every muscle until every fiber ached, you glared spitefully at him, hissing through your teeth like a feral alleycat, but it was difficult to control how your body responded.</p><p>"The witch is dripping with anticipation, Brother," rubbing more harshly, Overseer Markus slipped a finger underneath the hem of your panties. He gave a low, gut-churning chuckle of self-satisfaction, in response to how wet you had become from the unwanted stimulation. </p><p>Overseer Vincent had stepped closer, positioning himself opposite of Markus. He reached out to curl a hand around the nape of your neck, before entangling his gloved fingers in your unbrushed, filthy mess of hair. Exerting some control, he tugged hard enough to force your head back. Teeth clenched, you bit down on a whimper from the pain which rippled down the taut, fatigued muscles of your neck and shoulders. Vincent pressed forward in a domineering fashion, leaning his hips against the wooden frame of the Chair. As he did so, you felt the hardness of his cock within his trousers.</p><p>Panic surged inside you, like a hundred terrified rats clawing to escape a deep well. </p><p>"It would seem the witch has worked her black magic on us, Brother Markus."</p><p>"I am <em>not</em> a fucking witch, you perverted hounds!" you hissed furiously, no longer caring to hold your tongue. Their twisted superstitions had become ludicrous; were they truly blaming <em>you</em> for their sexual urges?</p><p>It was Overseer Markus who slapped you, hard enough for the coppery taste of blood to fill your mouth. Meanwhile, his other hand violated you further, teasing your opening. </p><p>A hundred rats, doomed to drown; panicking, scratching, clawing their way up slippery brick only to fall back into the cold abyss.</p><p>You wished for the Void to swallow you whole, if only to escape whatever pain and humiliation you were about to experience.</p><p>And so, the Void obliged.</p><p>"<em>Hello again, Piper. Have you taken my offer into consideration?</em>"</p><p>Relief clashed with the sickening nausea that caused your insides to writhe; a mass of furry bodies, clawing desperately for purchase. The two Overseers had vanished, along with the surroundings of the dreaded Cleansing Room. Brick walls had crumbled away to ruins, replaced by a vast, endless sky; deep blue merged with violet, similar to a dusky horizon. Vague shapes drifted in the glistening silver mists, resembling worldly objects; lampposts, ships, and the odd carriage floating in midair as if adrift at sea. You even heard the distant, haunting melody of whalesong.</p><p>But you were still in the <em>fucking Chair. </em></p><p>At least the rough leather belts strapping you down had disappeared, like ash in a gust of wind. Rising from the unyielding wooden seat, which certainly left bruises on your rump, you realized just how weakened you truly were from the whole ordeal. It was a daunting challenge to remain upright, but you managed not to collapse. </p><p>The Outsider was pacing nearby, with a hand tucked underneath his chin. It seemed as if you walked in on him during a time of deep contemplation. He was not looking at you directly, focusing his gaze at the black slate rock underfoot, but you knew he was eagerly awaiting your answer.</p><p>"Thank you," you expressed genuine gratitude, once you recovered enough wherewithal to speak. Regarding the god thoughtfully, you continued, "The Abbey claims you're the source of all wickedness in the world. But you helped me. So, I thank you."</p><p><em>"No one has spoken to me so amicably, without expecting a favor in return,"</em> the Outsider reasoned coolly, whilst pacing in a wide circle with a faint smirk upon his lips. That peculiar black smoke rose thick around his shoulders, obscuring his form before he vanished entirely. Manifesting behind you, he leaned forward, so close you felt the chill of his breath on your neck.</p><p>In a low tone bordering on seductive, the god inquired, "<em>Pray tell, my dear, what do you ask of me?" </em></p><p><em>"</em>I...I ask for nothing," you responded, baffled and unprepared for such a direct question, or his sudden proximity. For the most part, he refrained from touching you, and when he did, it was done with a light hand. You were not frightened of him, but there was no predicting the whims of a god.</p><p>How peculiar that he summoned you to the Void, a domain over which he alone lorded, only to ask what <em>you</em> demanded of <em>him</em>.</p><p>There was only a single thing you longed for--more than emaciated street urchins longed for a morsel of bread, or the greedy and vain highborns sought after the latest fashions--but it seemed unobtainable now, having lost your credibility.</p><p>"All I wish is to go home, to the children," you whispered softly, if only to avoid unraveling into a sobbing mess of a woman, "They need me."</p><p>The Outsider hummed in deep consideration; a sound which reverberated in the air like the deep, somber notes of whalesong. "<em>When faced with two diverging paths, leading into what is known, and what cannot be foretold, one naturally wishes to step back."</em></p><p>Mournful tears gathered in your eyes, as you interpreted the meaning behind his cryptic statement, which merely confirmed what you feared to be true. There was no returning to your old life at Madame Grimsley's Home for Vagrant Children. </p><p>
  <em>"Well then, if you have no requests, allow me to offer you something in consolation." </em>
</p><p>The Outsider stepped around you in smooth movements, confident and graceful as a ballroom dancer whose footsteps made no sound. Gently taking your left hand, he cradled it delicately, as if he intended to place a kiss over top of it like a gentleman of nobility would. Instead, the god of the Void cocked his head thoughtfully to one side, affixing you with his pitch black eyes. </p><p>Wicked eyes, according to the Abbey of the Everyman; black as the devouring abyss. And yet, they were captivating. </p><p>
  <em>"Dunwall has become infested with something far more sinister than diseased rodents. Good and evil often merge into one, in times of such hardship. A wounded heart is susceptible to corruption. Even a strong moral code becomes fragile, when one loses that which holds them true to those convictions."</em>
</p><p>Pausing in his philosophical speech, the god regarded you with curiosity. "<em>I wonder how you will fare in the midst of it all." </em></p><p>Chilled by that foreboding prophecy, you pondered its deeper meaning, but the direct implication was obvious; the Rat Plague was only the beginning of the turmoil afflicting Dunwall.</p><p>The Outsider stroked his thumb over your hand as he spoke further, <em>"I wish to offer you the means to survive the incoming tide of blood and chaos. A mark upon your hand, with which you may draw power from the Void. <strong>My</strong> mark</em>." </p><p>Hesitant to answer, you reflected on how little you truly understood of black magic and the Outsider himself. You were no witch, and certainly not a worshiper, but that seemed of no consequence to the god of the Void.</p><p>Unblinking, those depthless, midnight black eyes peered deeply into yours as he patiently awaited your answer. No false promises or sweet nothings passed his lips. There was no attempt to manipulate or otherwise persuade you to accept. </p><p>Weighing your options, there was no sense in refusing what might save your life. Perhaps there was a price, something you must sacrifice in exchange, but the god presented no conditions or demands of his own.</p><p>"I accept your Mark." </p><p>The instant those words left your mouth, the cold fire you felt before flared intensely over your left hand. Before your eyes, a symbol burned itself into your skin, taking form in black ink like a tattoo. It felt more like being branded with an iron heated over open flame, searing through every layer of flesh, deep into your bones. </p><p>A sharp gasp escaped you, but the Outsider still clasped your hand in his. Unbothered by your reflex to clench, he observed your natural reaction with a deeply fascinated expression. Despite how intensely the cold fire smarted, the sudden rush of magic and adrenaline through your body was exhilarating. Battered as you were, certainly in dire need of a hearty meal, some fresh water, and a hot bath, the aches and pains of your injuries were significantly dulled. </p><p><em>"You should find the power I have given you useful in these coming months. What you choose to do with my gifts is entirely yours to decide,"</em> releasing your hand, the god paused to peer down at you with another quizzical head tilt. His mannerisms were quite birdlike, and equally mesmerizing to watch. With a faint smirk pulling at his lips--the taunting illusion of a smile, not quite tangible--he mused, "<em>Although I am very curious what path you will follow, and who shall fall at your feet."</em></p><p>Unexpectedly, he vanished to stand behind you again. "<em>One more thing," </em>he murmured close to your ear, causing you to stiffen at the shock of cold breath teasing the side of your neck. The dark god of the Void seemed to know where the line was between respectful distance and invasive closeness, and he danced rather deliberately along that line.</p><p>Whether it was the Outsider's intention for you to recoil, or sink into his embrace, you were uncertain. All the same, you remained poised like the "proper lady" you were not. Meanwhile, your girlish heart fluttered, like a flighty bird trapped within a cage much too small to accommodate its restless wings.</p><p>Reaching a pale hand around your rigid form, the Outsider plucked something from the Void itself. Dark puffs of smoke, ash and blue sparks of magic took form into a small object. A pocket-sized compass, suspended by a chain.</p><p>"What--" you began to ask what purpose the object would serve, but fell silent once the necklace touched your skin. It was cold, yet it pulsed with an eerie heartbeat, like a living thing of flesh and bone. </p><p>"<em>A gift, my dear. A talisman, crafted by my own hands. What was lost in a swell of chaos and  bloody tide, many years ago, I return to you," </em>the Outsider explained with a softer quality to his silky voice. He sounded almost mournful, as whales drifting in the Void above bellowed out melancholy notes in remembrance of great tragedy. Securing the clasp around your neck with a delicate touch, his cool fingertips lingered for just a moment, the briefest intimacy, before he retracted his touch and vanished in wisps of smoke and cinders.</p><p>Touching the compass as it settled over your chest, you recognized it. Your mother's compass; the only jewelry she ever wore, aside from her wedding band. Except it was different, you knew that beyond the shadow of a doubt. The Outsider had not salvaged a worldly object from the bottom of the sea--the compass around your neck was spawned of the Void itself. Pure silver with delicate engravings and sapphire gemstone insets were mimicked by smooth, carved bone, and crude shards of iridescent obsidian rock. </p><p>Whispers of unintelligible gibberish came from within the object itself.</p><p>Superstitious folk would consider it a cursed object, but there was something about the Compass which you found comforting. Perhaps it was the illusion of familiarity, but you smiled appreciatively and turned to face the Outsider. He was perched atop the ruins of what had been a brick wall, observing you with those hungry, Void-black eyes.</p><p>The wall of the Overseers' dungeon was eroded and crumbling, as if centuries had passed in Dunwall; a glimpse of the future, entombed in the past, existing simultaneously in the Void. </p><p>Lightly placing your fingertips over the object he so generously crafted, you spoke quietly, "Thank you."</p><p>The god seemed unaccustomed to receiving sincere gratitude, tilting his head in an odd fashion.</p><p><em>"I shall return you to your world now," </em>he forewarned with a rather morose expression. His strangely grim, almost pained grimace conflicted with the indifferent monotone of his voice, "<em>Use what I have given you, and gain the advantage over those who intend you harm. Know that I shall be watching, very closely."</em></p><p>Vanishing into the Void, the god made a vaguely dismissive waving gesture. </p><p>In a jarring transition, you were suddenly back in the Chair, wrists and ankles tightly bound. The wretched Overseers resumed their inappropriate touching. It was their every intention to do unspeakably vile things to someone whom they perceived to be a helpless woman.</p><p>Thrown to the wolfhounds, <em>again</em>. </p><p>Magic burned hot in your veins, joining the revulsion and newly formed hatred for everything the Abbey stood for. Being groped and stroked by the Overseers' wicked hands, you desperately willed the Void to whisk you away. Black smoke enveloped your form and you were suddenly free of your restraints, no longer seated in the Chair but standing a few paces away, beside the table. </p><p>Rodrigo had moved in a similar fashion, but rather than becoming smoke, his form shuddered and he seemed to move unnaturally fast. Was he marked by the Outsider, as well?</p><p>"What?" Overseer Markus shouted, astounded when you vanished in a literal cloud of smoke and ash before his eyes; of course, he had not truly believed you were a witch. </p><p>"Over there, Brother! Witchcraft!" Overseer Vincent pointed toward you, alerting his commanding officer to your whereabouts. From where he stood, he witnessed how you materialized from the smoke, leaving no shadow of a doubt you were guilty of heresy. He appeared to be taken aback, as well, never expecting you to be capable of such power.</p><p>These sick bastards used their authority to abduct innocent women. You came to that realization with a rush of fury that sizzled like an unstable mixture of crude whale oil in your blood.</p><p>Overseer Markus whirled around with his sabre drawn, while Overseer Vincent quickly unholstered the pistol from his belt and aimed, momentarily holding fire as he waited for his superior to give the order. Unarmed and untrained in combat, you were still at a great disadvantage.</p><p>"Don't move, witch," Markus warned in a scornful tone, pointing an accusatory, threatening finger in your direction.</p><p>Thinking quickly, you dove underneath the table for cover. Overseer Vincent fired off a shot, aiming to wound you; the bullet struck the stone floor, narrowly missing your leg. Scrambling out from the other side, you gasped at how quickly Overseer Markus had strode over to intercept your path.</p><p>In a downward arch, he swung his sabre, meaning to wound rather than give you the mercy of a quick death. You shielded yourself with both arms crossed over your face, but managed to roll out of his reach to avoid being cut. The Outsider's mark granted you faster reflexes, in addition to higher pain tolerance and increased durability. While your arms had been severely battered and shredded by the whip, the pain was now somewhat bearable. </p><p>Striking the floor beside you with a sharp clang, Markus' sabre missed its target. </p><p>Overseer Vincent had waltzed around the table and prepared to fire on you again, practically bouncing in his gait like a peckish wolfhound eager to be fed. The mark on your left hand burned, as you called upon the Void once more to transverse yourself out of the bullet's trajectory. Appearing behind Overseer Markus, you delivered a hard shove and, astonishingly, caused him to lose his balance entirely.</p><p>The rather sturdy, physically imposing man pitched forward and struck the floor hard. If his armored mask did not protect his face, he would have a broken nose.</p><p>"What are you doing?" from the floor, Overseer Markus snarled at his subordinate, who seemed unsure what to do as the situation had spiralled out of control, "Don't just stand there, you imbecile!"</p><p>Overseer Vincent obeyed, striding toward you aggressively, eager to please. When you attempted to whisk yourself away once more, the mark on your hand burned dully and fizzled, to no effect.</p><p>
  <em>Oh fuck.</em>
</p><p>"What's the matter? Have you exhausted yourself already, filthy little witch?" Overseer Vincent taunted, noticing the look of panic on your face when the well of magic went dry. Quick on his feet, he lunged and snatched hold of your marked hand before you could bolt. Despite your newfound arcane strength, the man still had the physical advantage. He twisted your arm and spun you around, restraining you in a Tyvian chokehold.</p><p>While you thrashed wildly in Vincent's hold, Overseer Markus had risen to his feet, readjusting the high collar around his neck to salvage his wounded pride.</p><p>"What a shame," Markus remarked caustically, whilst retrieving his sabre from the floor; the derision in his voice suggested he would spit, if not for his mask. Twirling the sharpened, polished blade in his gloved hand, he pivoted to face you, proclaiming in a harsh tone lacking remorse, "It was our intention to release you, but it would seem your spirit cannot be wrested from the Outsider's grasp." </p><p>Eyeing the sharp blade--forged of Tyvian ore, the purest and strongest of metals--you watched him approach with murderous intent. When he drew the sabre back, preparing to bury the blade in your ribcage, the magic in your blood crackled to life and surged through your bones like an electric jolt from an Arc Pylon.</p><p>Focusing on the space behind Overseer Markus, you welcomed the Void to embrace you for a brief moment, becoming formless. When your body solidified once more, you had avoided the fatal blow, but Overseer Markus thrust forward with his sabre before he realized you were no longer in its path. </p><p>Overseer Vincent emitted the most awful sound, unprepared for the feeling of a blade forcing its way through his gut. He choked as blood undoubtedly filled his mouth, reaching out far too late to stop the sabre. Gripping onto Markus' arm, he involuntarily leaned farther into the blade as his legs failed him.</p><p>"Brother!" Overseer Markus cried out in abject horror at what he had done, gripping onto Vincent's shoulder but much too shocked to prevent him from toppling sideways to the floor. He immediately knelt down, releasing the handle of his sabre. Taking the dying man's hand in both of his, their white gloves now heavily stained with blood, Markus implored with audible dismay, "Brother, please, forgive me!"</p><p>Blood formed a dark crimson pool over the stone underneath Overseer Vincent, rendering him much too weak to say a word of farewell or absolve Markus of his guilt. He was dead, and you were not about to weep over it. Dunwall was down one less sadistic bastard; he abused his power over the defenseless, under the false pretense of maintaining order and religious piety.</p><p>In mourning, Overseer Markus knelt there, weeping, as if the man had forgotten you were standing nearby, or perhaps grief skewed his priorities.</p><p>There was a loaded pistol in your hand, which you had swiped from his belt while his sabre was buried in Vincent's intestines. Working at the orphanage, there was no real need to carry weapons, but you had fired guns before, many years ago.</p><p>Cocking the barrel, you pressed it between Overseer Markus' shoulder blades. He seemed overcome with guilt, making no move against you. <em>How pathetic</em>. To think he valued the life of his Brother, but not the unknowable scores of people wrongfully persecuted and murdered by the Abbey. How many victims--innocent, or otherwise--suffered at the hands of this zealot? This perverted, sadistic fiend.</p><p>Without prolonging the moment, you pulled the trigger, and Overseer Markus fell dead beside the Brother he loved--the Brother he killed--as the bullet passed straight through his blackened heart.</p><p>With both of your assailants lying dead, you felt no happiness or sick pleasure. However, there was a small comfort in knowing they would never harm another innocent woman--or anybody else, for that matter. </p><p>Turning away from the deceased Markus, you walked over to the table where the Void-damned audiograph player sat, its very existence a mockery. With a hard shove, you sent the wretched thing crashing to the stone floor where it broke into several pieces. </p><p>Now <em>that </em>was satisfying.</p><p>There was no reviling in your victory just yet. You were somewhere underneath Holger Square, in dungeons that, as far as the City Watch knew, did not exist. The place would be crawling with Warfare Overseers, like rats congregating in the sewers under the city.</p><p>The Outsider's words from earlier repeated in your mind. <em>'Dunwall has become infested with something far more sinister than diseased rodents.'</em></p><p>It was a warning. The corruption in the Empire went far deeper than you could know. No one in the city could be trusted, and there was no returning to your old life.</p><p><em>Rodrigo. </em>The Whaler's name echoed in the back of your mind.</p><p>One might feel resentment toward the person who caused them to be arrested, tortured, and sexually violated. You owed the Whaler nothing, and were under no obligation to rescue him--but, if he was alive, you refused to leave him behind. Assassin or not, no one deserved to suffer needlessly at the hands of these zealots.</p><p><em>Outsider's bones. </em>You were treading dangerous waters, murky and home to unknowable evils lurking beneath the dark surface.</p><p>A hundred rats, trapped in a deep well; one had found purchase over the slippery bricks, scrambling toward sweet freedom. One wrong move, and you would meet your demise, but you did not wish to be the only survivor.</p><p>"I must be going mad," you whispered to no one in particular, beginning your search for the Whaler in Black. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. The Warning</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Wracked by premature guilt and indecision, Daud reflected on his last encounter with the Outsider. It was not pleasant. </p><p>Fate confronted him twice on the roof of the Chamber of Commerce Building. Once in the form of a god. The second time, Billie Lurk brought him news.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thank you for the kudos! It motivates me to continue writing, when I know someone out there enjoys my work. </p><p>Maybe I dove in way too deep with this plot, buuut...HERE WE GO! WOOOHOOO! </p><p>Oh, and a little Daud POV for the hell of it. Some canon divergence, but nothing major.</p><p>Also, aggressive Outsider. </p><p>No big trigger warnings for this chapter, just more of the usual. Leave a comment and let me know what you think so far. And what you would like to see happen later on--I will take requests into consideration. </p><p>Enjoy!</p><p>**Minor edit: I have revised some of what I previously wrote, but not much has changed. I also added a non-binary and mute character, who is mentioned in passing. They will be making an appearance later. More notes at the end.**</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-- 3rd Day, Month of Earth, 1837 --</p><p>The black eyed bastard was acting strangely.</p><p><em>Aloof </em>was not quite the word Daud would use. The god of the Void carried himself in a unique way; austere, mild-mannered, dignified. Daud's first impression was of an arrogant, coldhearted aristocrat, but appearances were misleading. The Outsider was not a spoiled highborn. Arrogant nobles were far easier to understand, and predict.</p><p>The Outsider, on the other hand, was enigmatic. Being inhuman surely had something to do with that. His presence was equal parts mesmerizing and terrifying; whenever he was near, time itself seemed to hold its breath.</p><p>Daud was one of the most dangerous, widely-feared men throughout the Isles. Yet, whenever the Outsider spoke, it chilled him to the bone.</p><p>When the god branded his cursed mark upon his left hand--branding his very spirit--Daud felt bound to the shadows he once distrusted. He belonged to them, and that simple fact brought him a strange comfort. </p><p>The Outsider peered deeply into the darkest reaches of mens' hearts. He knew things best locked away in the recesses of the mind, and once shared these scandalous secrets openly with Daud. Funny; the god of the Void was quite the gossip. Who could blame him, when the filthy secrets of the otherwise untouchable aristocracy were laid bare to his all-seeing eyes?</p><p>One could not become a successful master assassin without a little...<em>insurance</em>. Blackmail. A foolproof method of ensuring clients would not cross Daud, or go back on their word. Bribery, infadelity, gambling habits or improper use of funds; everyone and their mother had some dirt they swept under the rug. Evidence of wrongdoing locked away in a chest under the floorboards, or in a coded safe. Daud could access it all, and shatter a man's entire life with a single love-letter or incriminating document.</p><p>He knew more than he would like about the private lives of Dunwall's populace. The Knife of Dunwall could pluck a few threads, and the entire fabric of the city would unravel at the seams. There was one thing people feared more than his blade, and that was living with the humiliation of a tarnished family name.</p><p>Gradually, though, the Outsider became less invested in aiding Daud in his ventures. Their relationship had always been tense, at best. Over the years, their exchanges became somewhat hostile.</p><p>After their most recent correspondence, well, Daud felt more than a little put out.</p><p>A full decade had passed since the black eyed bastard contacted Daud. There were no more odd dreams of traversing the Void. Not even the faintest of whispers in his ear. None of this wounded Daud whatsoever. In fact, he could not give a rat's ass if the Outsider never spoke to him again. Unfortunately, therein was the problem. The Outsider had not forgotten about the back-alley cutthroat  who became a master assassin.</p><p><em>Content </em>hardly described any of Daud's grim moods, but he had been <em>comfortable,</em> leading the most infamous, skilled band of assassins in the Isles. Until the elusive god of the Void appeared to him, exactly three nights ago. Daud had been restless ever since. He felt off-kilter, like the whole fucking world had flipped on its head. Sleep eluded him.</p><p>Luckily, being Void-touched granted one a certain degree of resistance to human ailments and illnesses. That included sleep deprivation, but, as with all things, there were limitations. One could only go so long without rest before they became erratic and irrational. He managed to eat, and drink, but his eyes refused to close for longer than a few minutes. His body demanded action, as the Void magic surged through his blood, practically singing in his bones. </p><p>And so, Daud had taken to the rooftops over the Flooded District, and the city beyond. His Whalers certainly noticed his unusual pacing through all hours of the night, and his distinct absence from the daily training regiments. None of them were brazen enough to confront their mentor, but they were likely beginning to suspect the Knife of Dunwall had something on his mind. Eventually, he would have to conjure some explanation for his behavior. Play it off like he was formulating a plan for their upcoming job. They would buy that, if he actually presented one.</p><p>Right now, he stood atop the roof of the old Chamber of Commerce Building.</p><p>It was the third day of the Month of Earth; just about two weeks before he would lead his Whalers on a mission to Dunwall Tower. Dark violet clouds loomed over the city, unleashing an endless barrage of freezing rain and howling winds.</p><p>Daud grimaced as he looked up at the sky. What a peculiar coincidence; the storm began the same night the Outsider contacted him, for the first time in ten years. Of course, the black eyed bastard had no control over the weather, but it was quite fitting. </p><p>A chaotic environment, to reflect the chaotic mind.</p><p>Oh, was he <em>tired</em>. Age was most certainly beginning to affect him, but not quite enough to consider retirement. Daud snorted at the prospect; he never actually imagined he would survive that long in this particular line of work. He would never confess it to the black eyed bastard, but he knew without the Outsider's blessings, he would have died several times over.</p><p>It was that silent gratitude which compelled Daud to erect a shrine in his private chambers. Constructed of timber salvaged from the crumbling builings around the Flooded District, it was nowhere close to being a work of art. Daud had assembled it rather haphazardly. The wood absorbed a lot of moisture during the flood, smelling of rot. Without the rusted nails and coils of barbed wire binding it all together, it would fall apart. </p><p>Out of habit, Daud had placed a new rune upon the fine purple cloth. He found the object whilst he was out scouting the city for a missing Whaler; his most skilled reconnaissance agent, Rodrigo.</p><p>The Outsider--he learned some time ago--could appear whenever and wherever he damn well pleased. Shrines were unnecessary, but there was something oddly cathartic about the ritual of placing offerings. Daud was never one for worship, and the god never demanded it. All the same, he built the shrine as a gesture. For all his skill, and his infamous reputation of being a ruthless, calculated killer, Daud valued respect. </p><p>The rune was placed upon the shrine, as a small nod of gratitude; nothing more, or less.</p><p>And, just like that, the Outsider appeared. </p><p>-------- ¤ --------</p><p>-- 1st Day, Month of Earth, 1837 --</p><p>
  <em>"Daud, my old friend. It's been a long while, but you've got my interest again. How the years pass and the bodies fall." </em>
</p><p>Recoiling from the shrine with a sharp jolt, Daud cursed the deity's name. He nearly leapt out of his skin when that monotonous, silken voice broke the silence. He was kneeling before the shrine, head bowed. Not out of religious devotion, but in contemplation.</p><p>Seldom was the Knife of Dunwall taken by surprise, but he never expected the Outsider to truly appear. Sure enough, the god manifested, effortlessly stepping through the dark veil between two worlds. Dense shadows converged around his solid form, like smoke without flame. Never before had the Outsider set foot amongst the living--at least, not to visit Daud. The god always pulled him into the Void while he slept, or whispered things only he could hear.</p><p>Something felt wrong. Dread churned his guts, like someone had disemboweled him and replaced his insides with live eels.</p><p>The Outsider looked displeased, or deeply perturbed by something. For as long as Daud knew him--an insignificant span of time, really--the god often seemed indifferent. He was the embodiment of moral ambiguity. True neutrality, in a world so divided by concepts of right and wrong. Aside from scathing commentary on the corrupt people of Dunwall, and snarky witticisms disguised under a tone of apathy, the Outsider rarely expressed strong opinions or feelings.</p><p>Dark thoughts obviously plagued his infinite mind, as the Outsider stood--level to the ground, rather than floating. Arms crossed, he was staring down at Daud with an expression which seemed to fluctuate perpetually between admiration and disgust. At least <em>that</em> had not changed. </p><p>"Well I'll be damned," Daud remarked with a dry chuckle, rising from his knees to stand before the god with dignity. "You must be woefully bored out of your skull, if you're here to see me." </p><p><em>"Boredom is hardly the motivation which brought me here,"</em> the Outsider clarified with the slight shake of his head, speaking in that sly monotone, "<em>I have come for other reasons." </em></p><p>"This should be good," Daud grunted, folding his arms over his broad chest to mirror the god's posture, "I have the distinct feeling I might need a drink, afterwards, but sure, let's hear it, <em>old friend."</em></p><p>Alcohol never appealed to him, oddly enough, but the expression had its uses.</p><p>The Outsider quirked an eyebrow at him, in a way that was unnervingly human. Something about the god seemed...different.</p><p>His clothes, for one, had changed from that rusty brown jacket and trousers to a more refined, black getup. His pale complexion seemed to glow white as bone, in contrast to the midnight black fabric. Stranger still, his hair looked a few inches longer, despite being unaffected by the passage of time. Perhaps the god decided to change up his look--Daud really could not give a solitary fuck about that.</p><p>However, the differences went much deeper than the superficial level. Daud could <em>sense</em> it. The Outsider's very presence disrupted the atmosphere. What had once been a placid, undisturbed pool of arcane energy now undulated and churned violently like the sea in a storm. </p><p>Was the black eyed bastard actually <em>brooding</em>?</p><p>"<em>Great changes are fast approaching, Daud. The heart of the Empire has fallen into the iron-fisted grasp of corruption,"</em> the Outsider informed him of what he already knew.</p><p>Bodies were falling all over the city, festering with illness; most required no burial, as rats devoured the remains. The Rat Plague would only get worse, and the city would fall into chaos. While the poor suffered in the gutter, the wealthy dined and carried on as if nothing was amiss. It was the order of things. Daud knew that, but he never gave pause. It was of no consequence to him if half the city perished. There would always be someone left alive, willing to cough up a few coins to dispose of their enemies. </p><p>Aware of his indifference, the Outsider tilted his head inquistively, peering at the Knife of Dunwall with those glittering black eyes, "<em>So preoccupied with sharpening your blade, and lining your pockets. </em><em>Have you not been paying attention, Daud?" </em></p><p>Oh, fantastic--it was one of <em>those </em>visits. In his younger days, Daud mastered the art of selective hearing. A talent he unfortunately passed on to his Whalers, and consequentially had to beat out of them. At the young age of sixteen, Daud carved his own path through Dunwall with a blade in his hand, answering to no one. It was during which time the Outsider had seemingly appointed himself as the voice of reason.</p><p>Or, at least, the only voice which Daud could not silence with a blade to the throat. </p><p>Heaving a sigh, Daud pinched the bridge of his nose. He rubbed the same calloused hand down his scarred face, wiping away the scowl which tightened his features. In a listless, gruff tone, he asked, "Do I really need to answer that question?"</p><p>Of course, it had been rhetorical. The Outsider knew Daud stopped caring about the cause-and-effect of his actions long ago. Dunwall had no shortage of heads to collect, or coin in exchange for that blood to be spilled. No matter how many throats he cut, the city and the Empire toiled on. Nothing truly changed in the grand scheme of things, for better or worse.</p><p>"<em>How curious, that you sleep with that contract in your pocket," </em>the god remarked, waltzing languidly to pace in a circle around Daud. Either the master assassin was hallucinating, or the Outsider was smirking.</p><p>It was a simple fact that Daud kept Hiram Burrows' contract folded neatly in the breast pocket of his jacket. He often slept fully clothed out of habit, so the contract was close to him at all times. It would be careless to leave such a valuable piece of paper lying about, where it could be misplaced.</p><p>Keeping the contract on his person was done out of practicality. It sure as shit held no sentimental value to Daud--but the Outsider knew that.</p><p>"<em>From petty f</em><em>amily squabbles and spurned lovers, to gang rivalries and political disputes. There is no line to cross, for you have never drawn one. Some would call it fairness. Others, wickedness. What man do you consider yourself to be, I wonder. A harbinger of death? An agent of chaos?" </em></p><p>It was true; Daud never discriminated when it came to his targets. Nobles or common folk, man or woman, it made no difference. Moral grey areas just complicated things. It was best not to think about who 'deserved' to die, and who did not. On the rare occasion Daud had second thoughts, his original targets offered more valuable information or rewards for double-crossing his clients. That only happened if the client intended on breaking the terms of the contract.</p><p>Daud was, by all accounts, a murderer, but he was not unreasonable, nor was he dumb brute. He never deluded himself about his role in the world. 'A harbinger of death', perhaps. A butcher, most certainly. Blood and death, in exchange for coin; it was a simple transaction. He made no philosophical arguments to justify it.</p><p>The Outsider knew all of this, of course. He paused in his casual, predatory circling to stand behind the master assassin. The cold breath on his neck provoked a grimace, but Daud remained composed. It had always been like this. The Outsider would push boundaries, invading his personal space and subjecting him to that unblinking stare. He intended to unnerve Daud, seeking to crack his resolve.</p><p>It was a game only the god enjoyed playing.</p><p>Stoic and stubborn as a blood oxen, Daud refused to budge.</p><p>"<em>Does it excite you, Daud, to know the Empire itself is at the mercy of your blade? You can feel it; I know you can. The fate of thousands, balanced on its sharp edge. What a heavy burden to bear, my friend. One must wonder if such a heavy blade can be wielded at all."</em></p><p>There it was; the crux of the subject at hand.</p><p>The Outsider possessed a sharp intellect unrivaled by any of those puffed up blowhards at the Academy of Natural Philosophy. His analysis was not based upon mere speculation, but what he could directly observe. What he <em>knew, </em>indisputably, phrased so masterfully there was no denying the truth of his words. </p><p>If Daud resented anything more than the pampered highborn snobs dictating the Empire, it was the Outsider's smug little quips, and thinly-veiled critiques of his character. How the god knew the exact words that would shake his resolve or keep him awake at night.</p><p>"What is this, huh?" Daud challenged without turning around, sick of the whole charade. If the god came to persuade him into declining the contract, it was a waste of time. "You show up here, after ten years of silence, just to talk about the fucking piece of paper in my pocket? Make your point and be gone, Outsider." </p><p>Adrenaline surged hot in his blood once Daud realized he actually spoke to the god of the Void with disrespect. Truth be told, it felt <em>damn good</em>, but he knew how powerless he would be against retaliation, if he somehow managed to piss off the Outsider. </p><p>Cold fingers curled around the back of his muscular neck, causing his broad shoulders to tense, bracing for some kind of punishment. It never came.</p><p>The Outsider laid a hand upon him, with a decidedly blank expression, before they were both enveloped in a cloud of black smoke. Daud expected the familiar yet everchanging scenery of the Void, but the god had merely transversed them onto the roof of the Chamber of Commerce Building.</p><p>Immediately, the hand around his neck released its light grip and the Outsider flitted away, reappearing on the ledge overlooking deeper into the city. Hands clasped behind his back, he stood there in silent contemplation. Daud saved his mana, choosing to walk slowly over to join the god, as he seemed to be waiting. </p><p>"<em>Did you know there are only eight like you in the world, bearing my mark?" </em></p><p>"No, I did not," Daud answered in a flat tone, and sighed quietly. He could feel where the conversation was leading.</p><p>
  <em>"Some things are inevitable, Daud. The fair, beloved Empress Jessamine will fall, no matter who wields the blade. I have not come to persuade you in any particular direction." </em>
</p><p>Daud hated these little guessing games. How the Outsider toyed with him before actually revealing the purpose of his visit. If he could beat answers out of the god, he would. For the time being, he settled for speaking in not so friendly, blunt terms.</p><p>"Then what the fuck do you want?"</p><p>The Outsider smiled. The smug little bastard actually <em>cracked a damn smile</em>, and Daud was about ready to hurl him over the edge, bitterly lamenting over the fact it would not result in his death. </p><p>Daud had no time to act on that dark impulse, because the Outsider had already snatched onto his jacket. For a moment, he expected the god to fling <em>him </em>off the roof, as the solid stone beneath his boots vanished.</p><p>That instinctual fear of falling never truly dissipated, even after decades of leaping across rooftops. With or without arcane power, the perils were still there, and one misplaced step could lead to a broken spine or cracked skull. If the Outsider chose to pitch Daud over the ledge, there was a fifty percent chance he would die. There was something deeply unsettling about being held aloft by a man who was far leaner in stature. Of course, the Outsider was not just a man, possessing arcane strength that greatly surpassed Daud's. The Outsider curled one fist tightly around the strap over his chest, dangling him over the ledge with ease; if the buckle came loose, he would be in trouble.</p><p>Daud had naturally reached out to grab onto the god's shoulders for some kind of control, but in reality, he was holding onto smoke. The Outsider could vanish, and that would be the end of him.</p><p>"What're you doing?" the disgruntled, admittedly embarrassed Knife of Dunwall asked through gritted teeth. His eyes darted from the god to the surrounding area within his view, hoping none of his Whalers happened to be patrolling nearby. Activating his Void Gaze to see through the dark and sleeting rain, he confirmed none of them were in the area.</p><p>The last thing Daud needed was to appear weak, in the critical weeks of preparation leading up to the Whalers' biggest job yet.</p><p>The Outsider tilted his head, as he often did when deciding how to answer in the most cryptic, mind-numbing way conceivable. He loosened one hand from Daud's jacket, snatching hold of his left forearm. Prying Daud's hand from his shoulder, he tightened his grasp, constricting the ligaments so Daud could not make a proper fist.</p><p>His mark burned intensely from the contact, as his Void Gaze faded. He noticed how the Outsider appeared not as a glowing yellow form as living creatures did. Instead, he was a dark shadow, indistinguishable from the night itself. There was a very unpleasant sensation, as the Outsider leeched the magic from his bones. For a moment, Daud suspected the god was taking away his power. But he only weakened Daud, leaving just enough magic that his mark emitted a faint, ineffective glow.</p><p>There he was, the most feared man in all of Gristol, dangling helplessly in the grasp of a god. </p><p><em>"Remember this feeling, Daud, when you drive your blade through the kind Empress' heart,"</em> the Outsider spoke quietly. There was no malice in his tone, but the intensity of his soul-piercing black eyes was enough to convey his displeasure. Perhaps the god was disappointed in his careless actions, seeking to rattle him, or dissuade him from going through with the assassination. </p><p>
  <em>"I have come to offer you one final warning, old friend."</em>
</p><p>"A warning," Daud repeated with a humorless laugh. On the brink of death, he grinned and looked into the god's terrible black eyes without fear. "Let's hear it, then."</p><p>
  <em>"You cannot fade into the shadows this time, Daud. There will be consequences. Some will come in a form you least expect. Everyone must fall, and no one can escape their fate. Not even you, Knife of Dunwall." </em>
</p><p>And so Daud fell.</p><p>The Outsider vanished, just as Daud expected, in wisps of black smoke and ebony shards, returning to the Void.</p><p>Daud seemed destined to become a mess of blood and shattered bone upon the steps of the Chamber of Commerce Building. There were no ledges or lampposts to stop his fall. All he could do was slow his descent with three subsequent transverals, before he eventually struck the unforgiving stone. Although the impact was softened thanks to the slowing of time, Daud felt his bones rattle. Just before he struck the ground, he instinctively tucked into a roll. There was so much force behind the impact, he ended up tumbling down the steps. </p><p>He must have lost consciousness, because when he opened his eyes, heavy raindrops were falling over his face. His clothes were drenched in the relentless deluge, and a puddle had formed underneath him. How long was he out? A few minutes, or hours?</p><p>He choked, spitting up water and the coppery taste of blood. Searing pain inflamed his battered ribs and dislocated shoulder. Groaning, he rolled over onto his side to avoid drowning like a buffoon staring open-mouthed up at the clouds. </p><p>"Daud." </p><p>One of his Whalers appeared, transvering over to crouch beside him. Concerned, they placed a hand over his shoulder. It was his second in command, Billie Lurk. </p><p>No one else was around, either asleep, training, or patrolling elsewhere. Thank fuck. </p><p>"Billie," he choked out her name, reaching up to grasp the hand on his shoulder. By coincidence, it was not some novice who discovered him in such a vulnerable condition. Relieved, his thin lips formed a subtle, grateful smile before twisting into a bitter scowl. When he attempted to sit upright on his own, it felt like someone just wedged a knife between his ribs and pried them apart. Something was definitely broken. Collapsing back into the puddle, he cursed the Outsider and let out a string of obscene profanities. </p><p>"Come on, Boss. Let's get you up before anyone else sees," Billie said, calm and thinking logically as she always did. Offering some much appreciated stability, she slung his arm around her padded shoulders. Smart as a whip, she knew how it would look to the others if they saw Daud in such a condition.</p><p>Morale would be shot to shit. His Whalers would question whether or not Daud had the strength to lead them efficiently in their eventual assault on Dunwall Tower.</p><p>Daud clenched his jaw against the pain, so hard he almost chipped his teeth, but he was able to get his footing. Doing his best not to be dead weight, he stood, growling rather than whimpering as the effort strained his broken ribs. His dislocated arm dangled at his side. Popping it back into place would be very unpleasant, but Daud had done it himself many times before.</p><p>Billie was strong, and dedicated; she would carry his dead weight across the entirety of Dunwall if need be. </p><p>"You gonna tell me what happened?" Billie questioned, supporting him as they began to walk up the steps he tumbled down. The next challenge would be limping through the Chamber of Commerce Building to his private quarters without being seen. Billie would be more than capable, but Daud resented the fact he could barely walk unaided.</p><p>"Later," he grunted out, fighting a wave of nausea and the urge to collapse.</p><p>The majority of the Whalers on duty were patrolling the borders of the Flooded District, shadowing targets, or keeping ears and eyes on Dunwall Tower. The Chamber of Commerce was mostly vacant, with the odd patrol Billie and Daud easily avoided. Once in the darkened seclusion of his office, Daud exhaled some tension--which inflamed his side like a hotpoker. It was a fucking miracle his lungs were in-tact, and not drowning in blood.</p><p>Laid flat on his lumpy mattress, Daud curled his left fist. Dozens of invisible threads spanned across the city, forming an intricate spiderweb. Plucking at one chosen thread, he gave a firm tug on the Arcane Bond.</p><p>Roused from their sleep, they responded to his summons without complaint, receptive to his command.</p><p>"Emerson..." he grunted through a tight jaw. There was no real need to elaborate on what he expected--needed--them to do. Emerson <em>blinked </em>away, returning a moment later with their medical kit in hand.</p><p>The twenty-two year old Tyvian had flunked out of the Academy of Natural Philosophy, but not for reasons of incompetence. In fact, they were brilliant, self-taught, and <em>damn good</em> at practicing medicine. Unfortunately, the Academy was not particularly known for accommodating the deaf, or mute.</p><p>As it stood, Emerson would be more than eager to refine their physicians' touch by realigning Daud's busted ribs, and there was no concern of loose lips. Not many of his Whalers understood the Tyvian's convoluted language of hand gestures, except for Daud himself, Billie, Grey, and Thomas. Even if the others could accurately decipher whatever Emerson signed, the mild-mannered physician had no inclination towards spreading gossip. </p><p>Daud knew how it would look to the rest of his Whalers; that he slipped on a loose shingle and fell--broke a Void-damned hip like some clumsy old fool. That black eyed bastard <em>really</em> threw him off the roof.</p><p>If it were possible to kill a god...</p><p>-------- ¤ --------</p><p>-- 3rd Day, Month of Earth, 1837 --</p><p>Recovering physically from that ordeal had taken some time, constant fussing from Emerson, and plenty of Sokolov's foul-tasting vitality elixir, but Daud had suffered much worse injuries over the years. A couple broken ribs and wounded pride would not slow him down. He would survive. </p><p>What truly bothered him was the drastic change in the Outsider's behavior. It was rare for the god to intervene so directly, and he never manhandled Daud like that before. There was no obvious explanation for how <em>angry </em>he seemed. Was he <em>disappointed? </em>Like he expected anything else. Daud learned at a young age how collecting heads was far more lucrative than serving booze, or hauling whales in for slaughter.</p><p>The black eyed bastard even said it himself--the Empress would die, and it mattered little who held the sword. If not Daud, there were others who would leap at the rare opportunity to kill a monarch. If Burrows enlisted some cutthroat mercenary, there was a high probability they would either muck it up, or cause unnecessary pain and collateral.</p><p>Daud never once deluded himself into thinking he was a good man. Not by any stretch. However, he preferred a kill to be quick and clean. There was no sense in prolonging the inevitable; no sense in torturing a target for sake of cruelty or sick thrill. Clients who <em>did </em>lay out specifications for such were often disappointed--sometimes <em>infuriated</em>--to learn their enemies were not buried alive, dismembered, or force-fed their own intestines. In truth, Daud held nothing but contempt for such morbid, depraved actions. Most of his targets were dead before they even knew he was there to claim their blood.</p><p>Naturally, his Whalers followed suit; he trained them to be swift and deadly, but never cruel or violent without purpose.</p><p>'<em>Remember this feeling, Daud, when you drive your blade through the kind Empress' heart.'</em></p><p>The deed was not even done, but Daud already saw the fair Jessamine Kaldwin's blood staining his hands. </p><p>He accepted half the payment in advance. For a unique contract with political motivations, it was a necessary arrangement. There was no backing out of this--not without jeopardizing everything. If Daud displayed such weakness or lack of dedication, his Whalers would lose faith in his resolve. Daud knew better than to make enemies of powerful men, if doing so was avoidable. Hiram Burrows had connections that expanded far beyond Dunwall, throughout Gristol and across the Isles. He was not afraid, but to risk his entire operation was arguably unwise and illogical.</p><p>There were few options, this late in the game.</p><p>The soon-to-be Lord Regent would not take kindly to Daud backing out of the deal. There would be severe consequences; Burrows was not the type who would let bygones be bygones. Daud would likely need to relocate his Whalers elsewhere in Gristol, or another province entirely. Without the proper funds, such a move would be crippling. </p><p>Perhaps that would be inevitable, whether the assassination was successful or not. Daud had confidence in his Whalers; he trained them well. However, there was no telling just how far conspirators would go to cover up their deeds. Trust was a commodity no corrupt politician or master assassin could afford.</p><p>Hence the dire need for <em>insurance. </em></p><p>"Daud."</p><p>That voice interrupted his deep, perturbed thoughts. If it had been someone else, they would get an earful, or perhaps even a backhand. His Whalers knew better than to disturb his privacy, unless there was an urgent matter that required his attention.</p><p>"Billie," he greeted his second in command tersely, although he smiled despite the sour mood he was in. Standing on the ledge of the Chamber of Commerce Building, he observed the same view the Outsider had been so enamored with. The master assassin idly pondered over what it must be like, to see everything. To know what transpired in the darkest alleys, and behind closed doors... </p><p>No, scratch that. Daud would rather pluck out his own eyes, than witness that shit.</p><p>"You haven't slept in days," Billie stated; nothing escaped her notice. "Something's eating you alive, I can tell. What happened to you that night?"</p><p>Daud never told Billie about his unpleasant encounter with the Outsider. She knew he was no clumsy old fool. It was difficult to explain how a man bearing the Outsider's mark ended up on his ass, in a puddle. His sharp-witted Lieutenant was persistent. She would need some form of the truth, unless Daud wanted her to think he was getting sloppy. </p><p>"Would you believe I went toe-to-toe with the Outsider?" he asked with a wry smirk, half-turning to watch her crouched form rise to approach him.</p><p>"And you lost?" she presumed, based on the poor condition she discovered him in.</p><p>Folding her arms, Billie joined him on the ledge. She fought to contain laughter, twisting her mouth into a thoughtful pout. Daud could hardly blame her; it was a preposterous concept. When she wore the gas mask, it was easy to forget how young she was, but right then, she looked every bit the youthful spitfire Daud met on the streets.</p><p>With playful cynicism, Billie remarked, "Can't say I'm surprised that you pissed off a god."</p><p>Daud coughed a bit, rubbing the back of his neck to alleviate some of its stiffness, "I tend to piss off everyone I cross paths with, sooner or later. You know, it amazes me how none of you have cut my throat in my sleep."</p><p>Billie had no rebuttal. </p><p>Chuckling dryly to himself, Daud turned to face her directly, sensing there was a different reason for her to seek him out. Somber, he asked, "What is it, Billie?"</p><p>"We've got him," she began in nonspecific terms, before clarifying, "Rodrigo's alive."</p><p>Daud blinked in astonishment. Several nights of searching Dunwall for the Whaler in Black had produced no solid leads. He overheard folks talking about some orphanage being raided by Overseers. That definitely raised his eyebrows, but there was no obvious connection between that bizarre occurrence and Rodrigo's disappearance. For the sake of being thorough, he dispatched a couple of his Whalers to investigate these rumors. They found out the Primary Caretaker of Madame Grimsley's Home for Vagrant Children had been arrested for witchcraft.</p><p>A young woman by the name of Piper Kholson. <em>May her spirit find peace in the Void,</em> Daud thought bitterly with the shake of his head. Such accusations were a death sentence in Dunwall, with or without evidence of heresy.</p><p>Over the past few days, his Whalers searched along the banks of Wrenhaven River for Rodrigo's corpse, but he seemed to have vanished without a trace. Between the rats and the Hagfish, there would be nothing left of the poor bastard. If Rodrigo was alive, then he would be held prisoner for interrogation. There was only one place Overseers took high profile suspects to be tortured for information.</p><p>Holger Square, to the Office of the High Overseer building. </p><p>Heretics were never released. Cooperation or none, the Warfare Overseers in Dunwall were a ruthless bunch. Their body count exceeded the normal toll in recent months. Over fifty people were taken into custody, but more were persecuted in deserted alleyways, off the record books. Since the Rat Plague began, their militant activity was left unchecked. The Abbey of the Everyman; so ruthless in their goal to purge the Empire of Outsider worshippers. Daud's scouts could hardly sneeze without an Overseer sensing it these days.</p><p>"How..." Daud began to ask how it was possible that Rodrigo escaped the stronghold of the Abbey unassisted. The Whaler in Black--as the wanted posters called him--was highly skilled and quick on his feet; one with the shadows. However, he was not invulnerable, and the Arcane Bond only granted him a few abilities. Not enough to singlehandedly take on half of the Overseers' forces in Dunwall.</p><p>Something about the look on Billie's face caused the master assassin to pause. There was another piece to the puzzle which had yet to fall into place.</p><p>"Daud," Billie spoke his name with a tone she rarely used; deadly serious, devoid of its usual snark. "That woman. The one from the orphanage."</p><p>"What about that woman?" Daud pressed when his Lieutenant hesitated. </p><p>Billie held silent for a long moment, sweeping her eyes over his scarred face, no doubt observing how exhausted he looked. Whatever news she brought, it would only darken his mood.</p><p>"She's been marked by the Outsider."</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So there I was, making small revisions and refreshing my memory to continue writing the next update. Then I had an idea for a new character, Emerson. Rather than having them appear out of nowhere later on, it made sense to mention them in *this* chapter first. </p><p>Emerson goes by they/them. Dishonored has a canonically asexual character (Daud), a canonically transgender woman (Mindy Blanchard), and plenty of casual gay representation. I see no reason for enby people to be excluded.</p><p>Much love to the LGBTQ+ community.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Severed Bonds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Dispatched by Daud, Billie and a crew of Whalers continued their search for Rodrigo. Their mission was complicated by the Outsider's appearance.</p><p>Billie was given clear instructions: guard Piper's life. For whatever reason, the Outsider wanted the woman kept alive.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Why hello again.</p><p>Have some Billie Lurk POV just because. No major trigger warnings for this chapter. Minor descriptions of gore. That's about it.</p><p>The next chapter will be Daud/reader. I promise! (Jumping head first into this PLOT holy sh--) </p><p>As usual, enjoy! Let me know what you think so far. Thanks for the kudos!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>-- 3rd Day, Month of Earth, 1837 --</p><p>Old blood, rotting viscera and human waste; the repulsive stench assaulted her nostrils. It overpowered the small pouch of Serkonan spices and herbs she kept in the filter of her gas mask.</p><p>The earthy aroma failed to repel the gut-churning odor emanating from the bowels of Holger Square. Bile rose from her stomach, burning her throat. Staggering a few paces away from the entrance of the tunnel, Billie Lurk fumbled to remove her gas mask. She doubled over as the bitter, vile-tasting fluid spewed from her mouth.</p><p>"Lieutenant."</p><p>A slightly distorted male voice spoke, joined by the sound of several bodies transversing to gather nearby. Five uniformed Whalers emerged from the sewers to stand, crouch, or perch on the rocks. They spread out in a loose formation around their leader.</p><p>None of them said a word, waiting and watching in respectful silence whilst Billie dry-heaved. </p><p>It was rare for her to get squeamish.</p><p>"Outsider's blood!" she grumbled, mouth twisted into a scowl. Bent over her knees, she crouched down as the nausea had yet to pass. Wiping sweat from her furrowed brow, she addressed the Whaler hovering to her right, "Grey, tell me there's not a mass grave in those fucking sewers."</p><p>Grey was silent for a moment, before he confirmed her suspicions, "There are dozens of corpses, Lieutenant. A few of them are fresh. The rats have not begun eating them yet."</p><p>Spitting as the foul taste of bile lingered, Billie muttered a curse. Cold rain trickled down the back of her neck, as she knelt amidst the trash littering the riverbank. The storm had raged for three days; unusual weather for the Month of Earth. Billie was hardly a superstitious old sailor, but endless rain brought with it a dark atmosphere.</p><p>The vicious winds and monstrous clouds seemed to foreshadow the impending chaos that would soon befall Dunwall.</p><p>Assassins were not supposed to be unnerved by death. Not like <em>this</em>. Billie was hardly bothered when it came to blood and gore, but the sickening part was the <em>location. </em></p><p>Sufferers of the Rat Plague were confined to their homes, by decree of Empress Jessamine Kaldwin. These people were, quite obviously, victims of the Abbey of the Everyman. Rounded up for Outsider worship, or whatever made-up offense the zealots could think of. Some were likely dissenters; those brave enough to speak out against the Warfare Overseers abusing their authority. Very few were actually practioners of black magic.</p><p>Dunwall was rotting from the inside out...</p><p><em>"</em>And what of Rodrigo?" Billie questioned Grey, rubbing at the stressful knot over her forehead, no doubt forming premature wrinkles. <em>Give it a few years</em>, she thought with dry humor. One day, she might contend with the old Knife himself for the unofficial title of 'Least Approachable Face in the Isles'.</p><p>Daud had sent Billie and her crew to investigate the riverbanks and sewers near the Dock Yard. Its close proximity to the Abbey's stronghold in Dunwall was promising. If Rodrigo was careless enough to get himself caught by Overseers, this was a good place to look for his body. More importantly, the sensitive information he was dispatched to acquire.</p><p>'<em>Insurance</em>', as Daud called it.</p><p>"None of the remains we found resembled him," Grey informed in his even-toned voice, "If Rodrigo still lives, he might be held captive inside the stronghold itself."</p><p>"That stupid prick!" Billie cursed.</p><p>Rodrigo was supposed to be <em>one with the fucking shadows. </em>How--in the cursed name of the Outsider--had the infamous Whaler in Black ended up in the custody of the Abbey? Breaking him out of Coldridge Prison would have been feasible, if the City Watch got ahold of the bastard first. The Office of the High Overseer was damn near <em>impenetrable. </em></p><p>Leading her crew into Holger Square would be a suicide mission.</p><p>Rising with an agitated huff, Billie kicked a discarded bottle of brandy across the embankment. The dark glass shattered a few meters away, causing a swarm of rats to scatter with a collective squeal of discontentment. They had been feasting on some unrecognizable mass of flesh. The mangled remains could have been human, before the Hagfish devoured their share. </p><p>Several years her senior, Grey was unmoved and cool-tempered. He stood in silence, waiting to receive new orders, as the other four Whalers loitered about with the same enduring patience. They were all strictly disciplined; trained to internalize their pain and to suppress their emotions. </p><p>Meanwhile, their impulsive young leader paced angrily like a caged wolfhound; bloodthirsty and eager for its turn in the Hound Pits.</p><p>Scouring every back alley and literal shithole across Dunwall had lead only to dead ends and headaches. They were looking for a dead man. If Rodrigo still drew breath after three days of interrogation, he was likely a traitor. Every Whaler was issued a special ring, which contained a lethal dose of poison; its purpose was to allow its wearer to choose death over betraying Daud. </p><p>Woe to any fool who broke their oath of loyalty. </p><p>"Billie. We found something else," Grey spoke up again.</p><p>Reigning in her restless pacing, Billie exhaled a breath to compose herself. At twenty-four years old, she was the youngest among them, but age mattered very little. Whalers respected strength and skill, above all else. Once her temper was under control, she turned back to face the other Whalers sworn to follow her into the Void itself. For a fleeting moment, she felt hope rise to challenge her cynical pessimism.</p><p>"What more did you find?"</p><p>"A few meters in, we discovered a secret passageway. It must lead underneath the Dock Yard, most likely into some dungeon the High Overseer has kept hidden from the City Watch. If my suspicions are correct, they could be holding Rodrigo there."</p><p>How convenient; a passageway, connected to the sewers, which dumped out over the sparsely populated area of Dunwall. A discreet way for the Overseers to get rid of bodies, without alerting the City Watch--and the <em>Empress</em>--to their nefarious practices. With the Rat Plague spreading, none of the inhabitants or workers around Clavering Boulevard or the Docks would be shocked if a few bodies came floating downriver.</p><p>"Grey, tell everyone to get ready," Billie quietly instructed the Whaler beside her, sucking in a few calming breaths.</p><p>Upwind of the sewers, the air was not exactly <em>fresh,</em> even with the rain washing away some of the filth. Of course, the industrial stench of the city was wonderful compared to human waste and rotting flesh. </p><p>Crossing a fist over his chest, Grey bowed his head obediently before requesting more specific instructions, "What are your orders, Lieutenant?"</p><p>"We've found our way in. Let's go save the dumb bastard. Then he can answer to Daud."</p><p>"Understood."</p><p>Grey lifted a gloved hand and signaled to the others; a silent command for them to proceed. The man was very dependable on the field, more than willing to step into a leadership role on her behalf without question. He vanished, and the others followed suit, heading into the sewers to investigate the mysterious passageway.</p><p>Wrinkling her nose at the putrid smell of decaying corpses, Billie lingered behind the others for a moment. Solemn and apprehensive, she prayed to the Outsider that she was not leading five Whalers to their bloody demise.</p><p>Mentally preparing for the possibility of heavy resistance, Billie hardly noticed she was no longer alone on the riverbank. Not until her unexpected company spoke.</p><p>"<em>Hello, Billie Lurk.</em>"</p><p>Rigid on her feet, she let out a strangled gasp of shock. It took immeasurable skill to sneak up on a highly trained assassin. Cautious by nature, she was aware of her surroundings at all times. Daud trained her rigorously to sharpen those senses to a razor fine point. If someone disturbed a single pebble during their approach, she would hear it. Even with the relentless downpour muffling sound, Billie would have noticed their movements. </p><p>There was something <em>unnatural</em> about their presence. How the wind shifted abnormally, and the raindrops halted in midair, only to drift upwards. Time had not frozen--it ceased to exist. Whoever occupied the space behind her did not belong there. Their presence disrupted and disobeyed the natural laws of the world.</p><p>
  <em>"Our paths were not meant to cross so prematurely, but these are unique circumstances."</em>
</p><p>Whirling to face the potential threat, sword drawn, Billie felt the disciplined heart in her chest seize in the cold grip of primal fear. </p><p>There, at the sharp end of her blade, stood the dark god of the Void. </p><p>Most of the Whalers would literally kill to meet the Outsider--to receive his mark, like Daud had decades ago. For a short time, Billie shared in those aspirations. That all seemed childish and misguided, now that she was entranced by the god's kohl-black eyes.</p><p>Despite living the life of a fugitive, Billie had never truly felt like prey before. The wanted posters the City Watch pasted over the billboards had been more humorous than concerning, since a majority of them could hardly shoot the broad side of a whaling trawler. Years of surviving on the run made her streetwise and fearless, if not a tad reckless. Right then, she empathized greatly with a quick-footed jackrabbit, cornered by a ravenous wolfhound.</p><p>Speed and skill mattered little, when faced with an adversary capable of ripping her to pieces on a whim.</p><p>No emotion flickered across the sharp, undoubtedly handsome features of the god's face. His youthful appearance was uncanny; a false visage, or at least, a misleading one. While he appeared young, somewhere in his early twenties, those eyes of his were ancient and unfathomable. </p><p>The Outsider glanced down at the point of the young assassin's blade. It poked into the vulnerable, tender spot just underneath his sternum. One wrong move on his part, or a quick motion of Billie's arm, and the blade would easily pierce his ribcage. Daud taught her how to exploit the numerous weak points of human anatomy. There were many ways to kill, but none were quicker or cleaner than a blade through the heart. </p><p><em>"No ordinary blade can kill me,"</em> the Outsider informed her in a reserved, monotonous drawl. His voice was dreamlike. She not only heard it; she <em>felt</em> it, as tangible as the cold rain trickling down her spine. Cocking his head to one side, he advised, <em>"You would do well to remember that, Billie Lurk." </em></p><p>Swallowing to loosen the tension in her throat, Billie unclenched her jaw and slowly lowered her sword. It sounded like the god was eluding to some future conflict between them. That made no damned sense. What in the Void would compel her to actually challenge a god, or attempt to kill him? Unless he was joking, due to the fact she just raised her sword against him out of reflex. It was impossible to tell, as he delivered the words in a cold, factual manner.</p><p>Frowning in confusion, Billie managed to ask, "What do you mean by that?"</p><p><em>Damn it all to the Void.</em> Her voice shook. It sounded almost childlike, betraying how vulnerable she felt. Imagining such an encounter was much different than living in the moment. Her pulse refused to slow to its regular pace, forcing adrenaline through her veins as her instincts were to fight or flee. Neither of those were viable options.</p><p>Billie was on edge, watching the god anxiously as he stared right back.</p><p>Rather than answering her question, the Outsider walked in a half circle around her with casual posture. Tucking both hands loosely behind his back, he observed her with deep curiosity, like she was an oddity on display in a museum.</p><p>No spiteful bravado or fearless veneer would fool the Outsider. He examined her with the same intense curiosity as a physician dissecting an interesting specimen. With a single glance, he peeled away the veil of flesh, and cracked open the armor of bone. Sharper than a scalpel, his infallible intellect and otherworldly perception cut right through her false pretenses.</p><p>Billie felt violated. Of course, she was no stranger to the perversions of the male gaze, but no mortal man ever looked at her so <em>intensely</em><em>. </em>The Outsider was not interested in something as simple or primal as sins of the flesh, at least, not right then. Billie had a knack for reading people. The god was circling her with the same deeply invested manner of a man deliberating which hound to bet on in the Pits.</p><p>On the defensive, her volatile temper flared as she asked rather brazenly, "What the fuck do you want from me?"</p><p>"<em>Funny. I knew you would ask that question, but I was never sure exactly when," </em>the god mused, as his pale lips curled into a devious smirk. He began circling her once again, his movements leaving dark wisps of smoke in the air. Pausing mid-step, he spoke a few taunting words close to her ear, "<em>Never one for polite conversation, are you, Billie?"</em></p><p>So, the Outsider had her pegged. Etiquette was not her strongsuit; something she was unapologetic about.</p><p>"Cut the bullshit," Billie scowled, cringing away from the cold breath which chilled her worse than storm winds. There was no sugar coating her lack of trust, or hiding the fact his presence made her skin crawl. Daud never spoke warmly of the Void god. So it would be unwise to provoke his ire with her abrasiveness. Softening the harsh edge in her voice, she spoke more calmly whilst lowering her head briefly in respect, "Just tell me what you want."</p><p>What she really wanted to say was 'piss off back to the Void'.</p><p><em>"How considerate of you to ask. People usually want something from me,"</em> he responded, seeming unbothered by the inexplicable hostility towards him. The Outsider strolled a few paces away, wading ankle-deep into the murky waters of the Wrenhaven River. He did so without a care for the muck, or the dangerous teeth of Hagfish. "<em>They pray for blessings of wealth, knowledge, power... None are ever satisfied, and their insatiable appetite leads them to ruin," </em>he paused to ponder something whilst gazing out at the city teeming with vermin and pestilence, "<em>I</em><em>wonder if you will be different.</em><em>"</em></p><p>Wisps of black smoke joined the raindrops suspended in midair, as the god suddenly vanished. Billie recognized a transversal when she saw one, but the Outsider moved differently than Daud and those who possessed the Arcane Bond. It was like he became formless, untouchable; a puff of black smoke and Void ash. His next move was impossible to predict.</p><p><em>"You never wanted this life, did you, Billie? Lurking in the shadows. Broken by the love you lost,"</em> the Outsider remarked in that cold, silky voice, before his lithe form reappeared directly in front of Billie.</p><p>Without any forewarning, he snagged hold of her left forearm. Defiant by nature, she resisted the uninvited physical contact, and lifted her blade to defend herself--although it would be ineffective against a god. With immense strength, the Outsider caught her wrist and restrained her sword arm.</p><p>The cold touch of the Void pierced through several layers of her clothing, deep into her bones. </p><p>"What are you--ahh!" Billie meant to wrench away, but his grip was inescapable, despite all of her stubborn thrashing. At the mention of her beloved Deidre--slain in the streets by an overfed, pampered dandy--Billie snarled with animalistic rage. She wanted nothing more than to make the god bleed, baring her teeth and fighting with all her might, to no avail. She nearly dropped her sword in the fierce struggle, but held tighter if only to cling to her pride.</p><p>It felt like invisible stitches were being viciously torn from a phantom wound; the Outsider was prying something from her spirit. Billie released a distraught cry as she felt the Void magic slowly bleeding out. All the while, she thrashed in the god's hold like an injured fish in a net, hopelessly entangled.  </p><p><em>Daud. </em>Her mentor's name reverberated through her mind as panic elevated her frantic heartbeat. The Arcane Bond had been severed, leaving her unmoored, vulnerable, adrift in the dark sea. </p><p>The Outsider tilted his head at her dismayed reaction, and smirked. Billie thought him a rotten sadist, before she noticed the gleam of an ulterior motive in his kohl-black eyes. A silent communication; a dark promise he was not quite finished. Powerless to resist, Billie hissed through clenched teeth as the wound on her spirit was mended--like a hot brand to cauterize a bullet hole. Her left hand ached like it was being compressed in a vice, then doused in boiling whale oil.</p><p>Wrenching her arm hard enough that it inflamed her shoulder, Billie staggered back a couple steps, but only because the Outsider had relinquished his hold. Curling and uncurling her left fist, she ensured there was no impairment to the mobility of her digits. </p><p>"What the <em>fuck</em> did you just do to me?" Glaring at the god of the Void, Billie demanded the answer she already knew. The absence of the Arcane Bond felt destabilizing, at first, before it was replaced with a much stronger source; the Outsider's mark upon her own hand.</p><p><em>"I have given you my mark, so that you are no longer bound to others,"</em> the Outsider explained with an infuriating nonchalance, "<em>A gift I trust you will use wisely. There is but one condition. What I <strong>want</strong>, Billie Lurk, is for you to guard the life of Piper Kholson.</em> <em>How you do so is your choice to make." </em></p><p>"Guard her life?" Billie repeated in disbelief, huffing out a dry laugh at the ironic prospect of an assassin playing the role of a bodyguard. "I think you have me confused with someone else." </p><p><em>"Perhaps you need more incentive," </em>the Outsider spoke in that detached tone, waltzing around her in a wide circle. His movements were ghostly, making no sound, but the mud was disturbed under his boots. <em>"If Piper does not survive, the consequences will be felt across the Empire for several decades. You, Billie Lurk, might not live beyond the Month of High Cold." </em></p><p>Billie was stunned by those words, but grew increasingly aggravated the longer he lingered. Hackles raised like a disgruntled wolfhound, she watched the god's predatory movements with narrowed eyes. Another dry laugh escaped her, as she inquired flatly, "Is that a threat, or what?" </p><p><em>"Consider it a warning,"</em> the Outsider amended as he ceased his persistent circling. Hinging slightly forward, he smirked in a cool, sly manner and added, "<em>From a friend."</em></p><p>And just like that, he was gone.</p><p>Time began to tick by normally as the rain battered against her jacket and unmasked face once again.</p><p>"Prick," Billie grumbled. If there were consequences to offending the god of the Void, well, things could hardly get much worse.</p><p>The cursed mark upon her left hand sizzled with heat, like a fresh brand. Rubbing at it over the leather of her glove, she wondered how quickly Daud would notice she was no longer bonded to him. Would he be offended or angry in some way? The old Knife was a difficult book to read. Not in the sense of being unintelligible. He was about as 'poignant and tactful' as Billie, in terms of verbiage. However, it was the things left unwritten. The blank spaces; impossible to interpret, no matter how long one contemplated it. </p><p>Daud was a very private man. The Whalers knew not to disturb him when he was in one of his moods. Not even Billie knew the reason why he had not slept in three days. There was more to it than a forty-something year old man stewing in his thoughts. It was no coincidence that his insomnia--and his odd routine of pacing across the rooftops--began shortly after Rodrigo's disappearance. </p><p>So, there <em>was</em> a connection between Rodrigo going missing and the incident at the orphanage. That woman, Piper, had been dragged off by Overseers for "witchcraft".</p><p>Well, shit. </p><p>Things just got a whole lot more interesting.</p><p>-------- ¤ --------</p><p>Billie had rejoined her crew in time to view the aftermath of what looked to be a very well-executed ambush on the Overseers. </p><p>The Office of the High Overseer was the second most heavily fortified building in Dunwall, preceded only by the high security defenses surrounding Dunwall Tower and the Empress. None of the poor bastards were expecting five assassins to emerge from the sewers, infiltrating their stronghold via a passageway that did not officially exist.</p><p>Several precious minutes had passed, between the instant Billie hesitated outside the sewers' entrance and the moment the Outsider returned to the Void. She was uncertain if time had passed whatsoever during their 'friendly' conversation, but it had taken her a frustrating three minutes to locate and navigate the Overseers' passageway. </p><p>Dozens of corpses were floating in the foul-smelling water of the sewers, exactly as Grey had reported to her. The passageway was much narrower than the tunnels, just wide enough for someone to walk through and, of course, drag a body. The stone underfoot, and the walls, had been slick with muck; a vile mixture of sewage and old blood. </p><p>Billie gagged and cursed the whole time, before she finally reached the room connecting the passageway to the Lower Level of the building. </p><p>Having waded through filth, she was ready to cut a few zealots' throats, but Grey and the others made quick work of the lot of them.</p><p>A dozen or so Overseers were strewn about, most with their throats slit open or heads decapitated from their shoulders. It was a bloody fucking mess, but things had otherwise gone smoothly. None of the Whalers had been wounded or killed in combat; the element of surprise tipped the scales heavily in their favor.</p><p>However, there was a woman lying unconscious on the floor, half-dressed in a skimpy nightgown and covered in blood.</p><p>Grey was crouching beside her, checking her pulse when Billie emerged from--as the plaque on the wall aptly designated it to be--the Waste Disposal Room. </p><p>"Outsider's crooked cock," Billie cursed, finding the expression far more amusing now, but unable to have a proper laugh given the circumstances. "What did I miss?"</p><p>"We found her like this," Grey explained, aware of what her attention was focused upon, "In the Locker Room. I just moved her." </p><p>Billie stepped closer, relieved when she observed the rise and fall of her chest, confirming the woman still drew breath. Her identity was no mystery.</p><p>"Lieutenant." </p><p>Another Whaler blinked over to join them, facing his superior with a fist crossed over his chest. </p><p>"What have you found?" Billie questioned.</p><p>"Rodrigo was being held in what the Overseers call the Music Room. We disabled and dismantled their music boxes. They were torturing him. We don't know what information he gave them, but we have it--the intel Daud wanted him to retrieve." </p><p>"Is he alive?"</p><p>"Yes. We're ready to extract him, at your command."</p><p>"Good..."</p><p>Billie looked down at the woman on the floor, whose condition eluded to several days of starvation and torture. Her cheek was swollen, as blood smeared her lips where they had been split. Her arms had been whipped bloody. Dark bruises and welts covered most of her body; the Overseers beat the living daylights out of the poor woman. There was no ignoring the state of her left hand, limp over the polished linoleum, bruised and nicked with abrasions, bearing the Outsider's Void-damned mark.</p><p><em>That black-eyed son of a bitch</em>.</p><p>Grey had certainly taken notice of the mark, as well. Most people would dismiss it as some odd tattoo. Being a bunch of heretics, of course, he and the other Whalers knew its true significance. When he looked toward Billie for instruction, there was no need to see each other's faces. They were both thinking the same thing, but Grey sought her confirmation anyway, "What should we do with this one?"</p><p>As they spoke, Piper began to stir. Frowning in deep thought, Billie calmly loaded a sleep dart into the projectile launcher secured to her wrist. Grey watched her do so, while remaining close at the woman's side, prepared to stop her from making any sudden movements. Before things could get more complicated, Billie fired the sleep dart into her thigh; its effects were immediate, causing Piper to settle back down.</p><p>"We take her to Daud," she answered Grey coolly, "Let him sort this mess out," looking to the other Whaler nearby, she commanded, "Get Rodrigo and let's go. I need a shower and this place smells like shit."</p><p>"Yes, Lieutenant." </p><p>-------- ¤ --------</p><p>-- Two Hours Later --</p><p>"Daud."</p><p>The Knife of Dunwall had taken his self-appointed post atop the roof of the Chamber of Commerce Building. He stood there so often lately, one could mistake him for a statue; just a part of the architecture, bound to one spot. In the several days following Rodrigo's failure to return from his mission, Daud had been restless and reclusive. </p><p>Billie was beginning to understand why.</p><p>Unsurprised by her presence, Daud slightly turned his head to look over his shoulder and greeted her in a gruff tone, "Billie."</p><p>It was a far warmer 'hello' than the others would receive. Daud became very irritable when someone interrupted whatever perplexing thoughts were going through his head. He once struck Thomas for waking him from a bad dream.</p><p>Crouched on the roof a few paces behind him, Billie remained there for a moment, eyeing the man closely. His erratic behavior and grim moods were troubling, given the fact they were going to assassinate the Empress in less than two weeks. </p><p>"You haven't slept in days. Something's eating you alive, I can tell. What happened to you that night?"</p><p>Daud was smirking; humor was a good sign that his mood was not too dark to approach him safely. "Would you believe I went toe-to-toe with the Outsider?" </p><p>Reflecting on the condition she found him in three nights prior--barely conscious, lying in a puddle with a dislocated shoulder and broken ribs--Billie could guess who rose victorious. Doing her best not to antagonize the man, she presumed skeptically, "And you lost?"</p><p>Stepping over to join her mentor on the ledge, she choked back hysterical laughter. After meeting the Outsider, she would understand if Daud leapt off the roof to get away from the insufferable bastard.</p><p>Billie taunted the old Knife in the lighthearted way only she could, "Can't say I'm surprised that you pissed off a god."</p><p>"I tend to piss off everyone I cross paths with, one way or another. You know, it amazes me how none of you have cut my throat in my sleep."</p><p>One might interpret that as a joke, but Daud was rarely anything but stone dead serious. In truth, Billie was equally impressed--Baffled? Relieved?--how a bunch of thieves and killers managed to get along so smoothly.</p><p>Without her gas mask on, Billie had to be careful what emotions she put on display. Around Daud, she felt oddly at ease, despite how the rest of Dunwall trembled at the mention of his name. The other Whalers feared as well as respected him. Not even Thomas dared speak to Daud so freely. Billie knew their relationship was different; the Big Knife acted somewhat paternal towards her at times. That would not stop him from retaliating against what he perceived to be a betrayal. It was a dangerous gamble, whether or not to reveal what happened to her on the riverbank.</p><p>The Outsider had not asked if she wanted his mark or not. There was nothing she could have done. Question was, would Daud understand that, or would it even matter? Billie swallowed hard, as the confession got caught in her throat.</p><p>"What is it, Billie?"</p><p>Keeping secrets from her mentor felt wrong, but she was not prepared to explain the  whole ordeal. Daud expected to hear the results of the assignment he sent her on, so that was the information she volunteered, "We've got him. Rodrigo's alive." </p><p>Daud looked absolutely flabbergasted. Billie felt the same when she watched the Whalers drag a half-dead Rodrigo from the Overseers' Music Room. He was hardly recognizable; horrifically beaten to the point where his eyes were swollen and his breath came in ragged, wheezing gasps. Grey had carried him back to the Flooded District, moving so fast Billie had difficulty keeping pace with Piper over her own shoulder.</p><p>No one expected Rodrigo to live much longer, with the severity of his injuries. The Overseers' music boxes interfered with Void magic. So, Rodrigo would need several days, perhaps a week to recuperate. There was also the likelihood that Daud would kill him, if he suspected treason. Very few men could endure that kind of torture without breaking. There was no place among the Whalers for weak hearts or fragile minds. </p><p>"How..." was all the Knife managed to choke out, no doubt wondering how they stormed Holger Square and rescued Rodrigo without any casualties.</p><p>"Daud. That woman," Billie spoke again, hoping that prior knowledge would help lessen the shock once he inevitably saw it for himself, "The one from the orphanage."</p><p>Frowning deeply, Daud fixed her with a hard stare as the rain battered down on both of their heads. "What about that woman?" </p><p>"She's been marked by the Outsider."</p><p>In that moment, Billie watched a new wrinkle form over his heavily furrowed brow, as his grim frown tightened into a clenched jaw. The sharp intensity of his steel grey eyes became harsher as they narrowed. </p><p>"Where is she now?" he asked in a dangerous tone, low and grating. </p><p>Billie had no idea if he would kill her, or what. No one was meant to know the Chamber of Commerce Building was the Whalers' base of operations. The fact Piper had the Outsider's mark only complicated matters further. Possessing arcane power made her a significant threat, rather than a mere loose end. </p><p>"Asleep. I dosed her with another sleep dart once we got here. She won't be waking up for another couple hours," Billie replied evenly, folding her arms before she added, "When she does, I want to be the first person she sees." </p><p>"Is that so?" Daud raised a quizzical eyebrow, affixing her with a calculating stare. No doubt puzzled over such an unusual sentiment.</p><p>"She was beaten half to death, and drugged.  Outsider knows what those sick bastards did to her before we got there," disgusted by the thought, Billie scowled, and continued strongly, "I think the last thing she wants to wake up to is a strange man standing over her, Daud." </p><p>The passion behind those words seemed to surprise them both. Billie hardly knew a thing about Piper Kholson, aside from the fact she cared for orphaned children. Perhaps her own heart was not quite blackened or calloused enough.</p><p>Folding his arms, Daud squinted at her, but there was no hostility or aggression. After a brief, tense silence, he chuckled and remarked sardonically, "How kind of you, Billie. I'm sure that our 'guest' will appreciate the gesture, seeing as <em>you</em> were the one who drugged her." </p><p>"Yeah, well," Billie scoffed quietly, rolling her eyes; she did what was necessary, to avoid more conflict and unpredictability. "I stand by what I said. Let me find out what she knows," aware that she was speaking far too casually, forgetting his authority, she crossed a fist over her chest and threw in, "Sir."</p><p>Massaging the tense knot between his eyebrows, Daud sighed and turned away, lifting a hand in a dismissive gesture. "Fine then. Just keep her preoccupied while I deal with Rodrigo," he permitted, sounding as exhausted as he looked. The old Knife was battleworn and dented, but not yet dull; there were plenty more throats that needed cutting. </p><p>"What are you thinking, Daud? The Overseers rigged up a music box, and kept him chained like a hound," arms crossed, Billie grimaced, hating the fact she was vouching for the insufferable bastard, "I don't know what they got out of him, but his ring was confiscated. Maybe he fed them bullshit."</p><p>A solemn expression settled over the rigid features of his face, as Daud reflected on that possibility. Then, with the shake of his head, he responded tersely, "I think he better give me a <em>damn good</em> reason not to take my blade to his throat." </p><p>With those ominous words spoken, he blinked away, off to determine whether or not Rodrigo would be permitted to live. </p><p>Billie used to pray to the Outsider for luck, before she actually met him. Right then, she was cursing his name. Maybe the Abbey of the Everyman was right about the god of the Void being a force of corruption.</p><p>Reflecting on what the god said about the future--in particular, how her life was intertwined with Piper's--Billie stressfully rubbed the back of her neck. Could the Outsider's word even be trusted, or was he just toying with her, and the other people he marked? Daud, Piper, and whoever the fuck else was unfortunate enough to grab the Void god's attention...</p><p>No, there was nothing disingenuous or deceptive about the way the Outsider spoke. Billie knew how to read people--whether or not she could include a god in that statement was debatable. Nevertheless, she trusted her instincts. True or not, she might as well play along. </p><p>Watching the storm rage on, raising the water levels across the Flooded District, Billie grimaced as dark thoughts infested her mind. What if Daud came to the decision that Piper was too much of a liability? He would kill her without hesitation, or have someone else take her to the edge of Rudshore and feed her to the Hagfish. '<em>The consequences will be felt across the Empire for several decades...'</em></p><p>Billie would be forced to intervene and cross swords with Daud if he threatened Piper's life. That would incur severe repercussions, if she even survived that confrontation. With all the fire in her spirit, Billie hoped it would not come to that.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>So we have a Marked!Billie Lurk, meddlesome Outsider, and Low Chaos Daud. Expect some High Chaos Corvo in the future. *evil laugh*</p><p>I considered rewriting previous chapters and having a non-marked protagonist, but that seemed boring. (Although I do love the idea of Piper using her feminine wiles and quick wit to survive, I'm sticking to my guns). The Outsider is just marking everybody out here! --insert Oprah meme--You get a mark! And you get a mark! Everybody gets a mark! </p><p>Thank you for reading! (And for being patient? There will be more smut!).</p>
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